


The Right and the Wrong

by avidityfire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Language, M/M, Ongoing Omegle Roleplay, Romance, Sherlock RP, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 73,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avidityfire/pseuds/avidityfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the stag night fresh on their mind, confessions are made with a wedding looming days away. Co-written by my brilliant Sherlock, hpgleek713.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this started out on Omegle, and has quickly become the most enjoyable rp I've ever taken part in. My Sherlock is bloody fantastic, and I've literally gone through an entire cycle of emotions with this. There's also some pretty explicit sex later on, hence the rating. Some hot, hot, hot stuff. Will update regularly.

I'm sorry about that stag last night. -SH

Nah, it wasn't so bad. -JW

It was awful. -SH

That bit about waking up in jail? Yeah, maybe. I was actually quite enjoying it up until that point. At least, I think. It's all a bit fuzzy. -JW

Everything just completely fell apart. -SH  
I had it all planned. -SH  
We weren't even meant to get that drunk. I must have made a miscalculation somewhere. Or perhaps Molly did. -SH

Sherlock, you can't really plan stuff like that you know. The whole point is to sort of, let loose. -JW  
And hold on, Molly? -JW

I measured out our ideal alcohol consumption, and what our estimated reactions would be. That's what the graduated cylinders were for. -SH  
I had everything planned, down to the loo breaks, so we wouldn't be so heavily intoxicated. -SH  
But, as I said, I must have made a miscalculation somewhere. -SH

Actually, that may have been my fault. I took a shot at one of the pubs, when you weren't looking. Got another, but didn't really feel the effects of that one, so you might have gotten mine by accident. -JW

Oh for God's sake. -SH  
No wonder my intoxication was so potent. -SH

Yeah, almost got yourself beat at one point. You can be quite obnoxious when you're drunk. -JW

I'm always obnoxious. -SH

True. But a bit more-so, I'd say. -JW

Brilliant. So I'm a terrible best man and an obnoxious drunk. -SH

Hey, hey, hey, stop that. You're the best best man that ever...manned. No seriously, I wouldn't have it any other way. -JW

[delayed] I googled Madonna, by the way. -SH

Okay so I can finally get my question answered. Was she pretty? -JW

Not as pretty as you, John. -SH

Wow, I really don't know what to say to that. Thanks? -JW

So you agree? You think you're really pretty? -SH

Somehow I think you've been watching more telly than you let on. And sure. Why not. I'm incredibly pretty. -JW

I've been dying to use that reference. Could never find the right moment. -SH

Glad to have helped out. Priceless. -JW

Why did you put my name on my forehead? You were meant to choose someone random, weren't you? -SH

I don't know, I mean you were there, and it just seemed like a good opportunity. And you couldn't even deduce yourself. You thought I was talking about me. -JW

I also thought you were talking about the king of England, so... -SH  
Clearly I don't function well under intoxication. -SH

Hah. True. I'm still laughing about that. -JW

Who  _is_ the king of England, incidentally? I've not heard about him in ages. -SH

Sherlock, that would be because we don't have a king. And I thought your knowledge of the solar system was bad. -JW

No, I'm sure of this one. I have definitely heard of a king of England. -SH  
King...Henry, was it? -SH

Yeah, maybe, some odd five hundred years ago. We have a queen Sherlock, and it isn't Mycroft. -JW

Isn't it? Pity. -SH

I know. Sorry to disappoint you. -JW  
Man, I'm starved but I can't bring myself to look at anything. Are you feeling as bad? -JW

Worse. You drink more often than I do. You've acclimated more. -SH

Christ, you must be in agony. Mrs. Hudson around? -JW

Out shopping with Mrs. Turner, thank goodness. I don't know if I could tolerate her fussing at the moment. -SH

I hear you, Mary's out right now, she picked up an early shift down at the surgery. She was very amused when I came in this morning. -JW

[delayed] You two are going to be very happy together. I'm glad. You deserve it. -SH

Sherlock, I need you to know that this isn't going to change things. I'll still be around, all the same. -JW

Right. -SH

Kinda wish I was still a bit drunk right now, to be completely honest. Nerves have been eating at me like mad. Just, wedding nerves, I guess. That kinda thing's normal, isn't it? -JW

I suppose. Wouldn't really know. -SH  
What are you nervous about? -SH

You know, I've always wanted to get married someday, have a family, all that. But, in these past few years, that just went a bit towards the back of my mind, wasn't a priority. Just didn't feel like an immediate need. And now, I'm getting married, and it just feels...odd? Just really foreign somehow. -JW

I'm sure it's just...stress. Or something. -SH  
As I said, you're going to be very happy. -SH

[delayed] I want to say something. But if I do, I don't think I'll be able to shut myself up, and things are far too complicated right now for any of that anyway. -JW

What is it? -SH

I've forgiven you for what you did. It wasn't okay, but you did what you felt you needed to, I suppose. But however much I tell myself it's okay, there's still a part of me that's really angry with you, Sherlock Holmes. -JW

[delayed] Oh. -SH  
I'm... -SH  
I'm sorry, I... -SH

I spent so much time just trying to get over it. I moved on, and Mary came into my life. And I lover her, Sherlock, I do, but I feel that this...marriage and all, it just wouldn't have happened if I knew you were alive. -JW

But...it  _is_ happening. And I'm not going to interfere, not like I did with your dates. I promise. -SH  
I can see how happy you are with her. I don't want to spoil it. -SH

In a few days, I'm supposed to be up at the altar. And there's something very wrong with knowing that I wouldn't be standing there if things had turned out different. -JW

I don't understand. You will be standing up there. Nothing is going to go wrong. You can't obsess over what ifs. -SH  
Yes, if I had still been alive, you and Mary probably wouldn't have gotten to this point. Because I am a destructive hurricane. I understand that. -SH  
With that perspective, perhaps my death was for the best. -SH

Christ. I can't believe you just said that. If all you do is destroy, what the fuck does that make me? I'm supposed to be just caught up in all that? You forget that I stick around by choice. You were and always will be, my first choice. Can you really not see that? Even with last night, do you really not see it? -JW

[delayed] I still don't understand. What are you talking about? -SH

I'm a very screwed up man Sherlock. I'm getting married, and I wouldn't be doing it, if I knew that you were the one that wanted  _me_. And I am so sorry to bring this up now, and I don't like talking about stuff, not this, not anything, but I'm feeling a bit at the end of my rope. You think you're so damn toxic, you're not, Sherlock. I just, I don't even know. I guess I'm angry, because had things turned out different, regardless of what you felt or not, I'd still be right there if you wanted me to. I'd follow you to the ends of the earth if I could. I'm sorry, you can delete all this, it really doesn't matter. -JW

If I wanted you? -SH  
You...you want me to want you? -SH

It's ridiculous, I know. -JW  
I don't even know what I'm saying. -JW

No, it's... -SH  
So...are you saying you have...feelings? For me? -SH

Yeah. For quite some time now. -JW

Oh. -SH

Right. And that's where we leave it. Guess I just wanted you to know. -JW

No. -SH  
I don't want to leave it. -SH

Sherlock, please, I'm humiliated enough as it is. -JW

Don't. -SH  
Don't be humiliated. -SH  
I just...I need to... -SH

Need to what? If it's space you need, that's fine. I can see about getting maybe Greg to say something at the wedding instead. -JW

Right. The wedding. -SH  
But you just said... -SH

Look, I'm sorry. Okay, last thing I wanted to do was spring this on you. And it's okay, it's okay that it's not reciprocated. Sherlock, I somehow survived you dying, I can survive this too. I'm an adult. Like I said, I needed you to know. So I can have some sort of closure here. -JW

I never said it wasn't reciprocated. -SH  
First rule of deduction...assumptions are dangerous. -SH

So that means... -JW

Yes. I... -SH  
I love you. I don't know if you were implying a sentiment quite so deep, but I do. I'm in love with you. Deeply. _Desperately_. I have been for so long, you've no idea. -SH

Well shit. -JW  
I wasn't expecting that. Hoping, God yes, but I didn't actually think...Sherlock, it's always been you for me. That's it, just you. It's always been you. -JW

[delayed] Well. -SH  
Not completely, it seems. -SH

Don't. If you hadn't thrown yourself off a building, I wouldn't have been in mourning and Mary wouldn't have swooped in, so you don't get to play that card. Christ, what timing. -JW

I wasn't blaming you, or playing any card. I was merely stating a fact. -SH  
You're getting married. That's an unavoidable fact. -SH

Yeah well, in light of recent events, I think it's safe to say I'm not really in the best mindset. I can't really make any decisions right now, let alone have a wedding. -JW

John, you should marry her. -SH

Should I. -JW

She's good for you. Normal. You can have a nice, normal life with a wife and children and a home in the country to retire to. -SH  
Leaving her would only hurt the both of you, and you can be very happy with her. -SH  
I can't possibly compare to that life, nor could I ever ask you to give all that up for a life with me. -SH

You're right. You are incredibly logical; always have been. But what is it that you always say? "You see, but do not," what, "observe?" Would I like all that? Sure. But the one thing that Mary can't give me, is you. And I pledged my allegiance years ago Sherlock, and that's not faltering. You are where I'm supposed to be. I won't ever feel right otherwise. -JW

Being with her won't cause you to lose me. I will always be here for you. -SH  
No matter what. -SH

It'd be so wrong Sherlock. -JW

I am dangerous, John. -SH  
I'm not good for people. -SH

That's never stopped me before. Dangerous? Maybe a bit, but you breathe life into my mundane existence. And to even think about me having to sit and pretend that this never happened, that we never had this conversation, do you know how difficult that would be? How could I possibly...I don't want to get married. I can't, not now, not like this. -JW

John, please... -SH  
Don't make any rash decisions. You're...you're hungover and emotionally raw from the upcoming wedding. This...you're not thinking clearly. -SH

[delayed] When we met, did you ever think things would turn out like this? You ruined me once, and here I am just letting you do it again. Let me ask you something. If this wasn't about me, about what's best for me, for Mary, what would you want? -JW

Irrelevant. -SH

No. -JW  
No, it's not irrelevant. It's actually incredibly relevant, because I need to fucking know. -JW

[delayed] I would want you. I _do_ want you. -SH

Okay. So, just think for a minute what it feels like over on my end. I want you too. God, more than anything, and it's like you're guarded, you're trying to push me off into something you think I want, something you think could make me happy. Mary brought me out of a very dark place, yes, but when you came back, every damn feeling I've ever had, God,  _every_ damn feeling resurfaced tenfold, and I'll...I'll never be able to give Mary what you already have. What you've always had. -JW

Which is what, exactly? -SH

All of me, Sherlock. I'll never be okay being that person with someone else. It seems ridiculous to me now that I thought I could go through with this. -JW

John... -SH

This is all so wrong. So wrong. -JW

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. -SH

What do I do? Sherlock, I need you to tell me what to do. -JW

I...I don't know. -SH  
I'm not...this isn't my area of expertise. -SH  
I've never even been in a relationship before. -SH

I should talk to Mary. She has a right to know. -JW

Are you sure about that? -SH  
You can't take it back once you've told her. -SH

I can't play pretend either. I'm not a very good liar Sherlock, never have been. It's not fair to her. She shouldn't be marrying half a person. She deserves so much better. -JW

There's no one better than you, John. -SH

Please don't do that, Sherlock. Please don't. I don't know what kind of man I am right now. -JW

You are a kind man. A patient, loyal, wonderful man. Flawed and scarred and dark. My best friend. The best man I've ever know. -SH

I'm in love with you. Christ, so in love with you. But maybe I am being rash. Nah. It's just crap to know what you really want, and have the world turn to shit right in front of you. -JW

I don't want to be the cause of any pain for you. -SH

Sherlock, whether you want to or not, it's a little late for that. -JW  
I can't help what I feel, if I could I'd shut it down, do as you say, go the logical route. But I can't. Sherlock, please, understand. I _can't_. -JW

I'm so sorry for...God. For everything. -SH

What are you doing right now? I need to see you, I feel like I need to see you. -JW

I'm at the flat. -SH  
Are you sure that's wise? -SH

No. It's a terrible, dangerous idea. But if we're going to act on anything, it sure as hell isn't going to be during the wedding. I need this, I just need you right now. You need to just see, just understand. I can't give all that through text. -JW

[delayed] Yes. Okay. -SH

Phew, okay. Give me a few minutes, I'll be there in a bit. -JW

 


	2. Chapter 2

It took seventeen minutes to reach Baker Street. John looked down, his hand steady despite the trembling resounding through the rest of his body. Once the cab pulled to a stop he took a deep breath, stepped out, paid the cabbie, and made his way to the front door. Seconds later, he stood outside 221B, and slowly reached into his pocket for the keys he knew he would always have. He stepped inside, the flat near silent, and removed his jacket, setting it down on the kitchen table before making his way into the sitting room.

Sherlock rose from the sofa as John walked in, heart pounding violently in his chest. "Hello," he greeted quietly, unsure of how to proceed. What was the protocol for such an unorthodox situation? As brilliant as it was that John seemed to love him back, he felt so bloody guilty for once again sweeping into John's life and destroying it. How did he have such a talent for that? God, he gone and buggered everything up good and proper.

"I'm..." he began, then didn't know how to finish. "Hello."

"Hi," John breathed, his gaze briefly meeting Sherlock's eyes, before looking to the floor. The surrounding air was charged, tense; they were nervous and clearly he hadn't thought this through. He finally tilted his head up and licked his lips in thought, trying to think of what to say. What could he say?

"Sherlock, I-"

He cleared his throat and took a cautious step towards the detective, still maintaining a healthy distance between them. After a few painfully silent seconds, he finally settled on shrugging his shoulders in frustration. Expressing himself had never been his forte.

"There's just so much here," he said, using his arm to motion between him and Sherlock, "and I honestly think...that it would destroy the both of us if we just ignored it."

Sherlock thought about that, about how he would honestly feel about John deciding right now to go back to Mary and let both of them ignore... whatever this was. He was surprised by the hot roiling in his stomach, burning and painful and violent. He would go back to the drugs, he realised in surprise. Not to get back at John, but as a way to stop the aching pain that this would surely cause him. He nodded, still reeling a bit from his inner turmoil.

"I... I agree. But..."He thought his words over very carefully, "But more than I don't want you to leave, I don't want to be the cause of your unhappiness. I can't. Not again." He swallowed, holding himself back even as he wanted to step forward and take John in his arms and never let go again. "I'm afraid you would resent me in the future. Hate me for making you give up your entire future with Mary. And... I couldn't bear that," he admitted quietly.

John's eyebrows furrowed as he desperately shook his head. "Mary _should_  be everything I want. I know that. She's safe, she's...not you. And I don't mean that harshly, I just...when you fell Sherlock, I couldn't bear to be reminded of you, you were everywhere. So then after awhile Mary came, and she was clever like you, but so _different_ at the same time, and I thought, 'maybe this could be okay. Maybe that would be enough', and that was all I had, but it's not, especially now, and for Christ's sake Sherlock, I made my choice a long time ago," he said, chest rising and falling, hand tightly clenching at his side.

"The day we met, it was all over for me. So I don't want to hear about me resenting you or hating the life that _I_  have chosen. I just need you to see that, I just...I need-" he broke off, a tiny sound emitting from deep in his throat as he turned his head towards the ground. "I don't know how else to say it," he said solemnly, slowly shaking his head. "I love you," he near whispered, eyes blinking rapidly.

"John..." Sherlock could only murmur breathlessly, feeling a bit overwhelmed. This was really happening, wasn't it? John loved him. He loved John, and John loved him back. It was... It was... Sherlock stepped forward suddenly, pulling John into his arms and clutching tightly. He buried his face in John's warm hair, clenching his jaw and breathing shallowly, trying desperately to keep the hot tears in his eyes from spilling over.

"I love you too," he managed without completely breaking apart. "So much, John. I can't even begin to..." He shut his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. "God. I love you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, John. I never meant to make you think..." He swallowed again. "I'm sorry."

John's hands grabbed desperately at Sherlock's back, his breathing stuttering slightly as his senses were overtaken by the man in front of him. He stood there in silence for a long moment, wondering how in the hell he was ever going to be able to let Sherlock go now.

"I want to be with you," he whispered into Sherlock's skin. The embrace calmed him considerably, and he focused on slowing his breathing, his heart still beating quickly in his chest. 

Sherlock squeezed more tightly, his heart stuttering and his stomach clenching. "I want that too," he agreed against John's temple. 

They stood in silence for a moment, and Sherlock marveled at the amount of pleasure he felt simply holding John in his arms. It frightened him, the intensity of his feelings for this man. If holding him felt this mind-numbingly good, how would it feel to do anything more? It wasn't as though he had any real experience in this area. And he wanted so desperately to be enough for John, especially in return for everything John was giving up for him. 

"I don't know how, though," he admitted, voicing his thoughts. "I've never... I don't know what..."

One corner of John's mouth tilted upward in a small smile, and he hummed lightly.

"Nothing really has to change. According to everyone else, we were pretty much already there," he said, quietly chuckling. "Nah, just having you here, is enough. I'll move back in if you'll have me, and we'll still take on cases, and I'll still be pissed off at you on occasion, and we'll just move along like we always have. I'm fairly new to this too Sherlock, I've never been with a bloke before, but that doesn't matter. We can just take it slow, just take everything slow, and we'll be fine. Nothing's going to change." 

"Nothing?" Sherlock asked, hiding the absurd flash of disappointment. He wasn't experienced in the physical side of relationships, sure (even less so in the emotional side) but he had rather hoped that he would be able to express his affection for John through those ridiculous touches and kisses other couples seemed to live by. It wouldn't be ridiculous with John.  But perhaps John wasn't ready for that yet, if his romantic partner was a male. Perhaps he never would be. Sherlock had to be logical. Perhaps John would never fully be comfortable with being physical with Sherlock in that way. And he would be okay with that, Sherlock told himself. He would take anything John gave him. _Anything_.

John lifted his head so he could look Sherlock in the eye, opening up a bit of space between them. His arms loosened their hold and he slid his hands down Sherlock's arms, leaving them to rest once they reached the man's elbows. John stood quietly, studying Sherlock's face. "Not unless you want it to," he said finally. "I don't want you to feel pressured. It's all fine, whatever you want, whatever you want this to be, it's all fine."

Sherlock thought about that for a moment, thought of how best to word his blasted feelings.

"I..." He hesitated. "I want anything you'll give me," he decided to confess, averting his eyes. "I don't feel pressured. I want it all. But... I was thinking perhaps... Maybe you aren't ready for anything like that. Which is fine," he added quickly, "I don't expect you to be fully comfortable being in a same-sex relationship quite yet. I just... I don't feel pressured. At all." He reached up tentatively to cup John's face, relishing in the warmth of his skin. "I will happily take anything you give me, John."

John closed his eyes for a moment, gently pressing his cheek further against Sherlock's palm. After a few seconds he grinned, his eyes opening up to the detective.

"If last night was any indication, I want you. In _every_  sense of the word. You're bloody gorgeous, you know that?" he said, biting his lip lightly before clearing his throat, face feeling a bit heated. "So...there's that," he said pointedly, pursing his lips as he became fixated on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I..." Sherlock blanched, eyebrows raising in surprise. "I'm... what?" Sherlock had never considered himself attractive before. Any desire shown by the people he seduced for cases was merely psychological, knowing what he needed to do to get what he needed from them. It had nothing to do with his transport. He shook his head in dismissal. "That's very kind of you to say, John, but don't be ridiculous."

"How you don't see that, I will never understand, but you'll get it eventually. I'll make sure of that," John said with a firm nod, gaze still off Sherlock's face. "Jesus Christ," he laughed after a moment, dropping his head onto Sherlock's shoulder. "An hour ago I was miserable, and now here I am talking about...God, you're just insanely beautiful, it's ridiculous, and it drives me insane."

Glorious as it felt to have John's warm weight on his shoulder, Sherlock used a hand to lift John's head. He shifted until he could force John to look directly at him. "I would never wish you to be miserable. But knowing that it... That it got us here..." He shrugged, feeling a bit guilty. "I'm happy. I wish it had happened sooner, but I'm ecstatic it happened at all. That you could really... love me." He frowned. "Is that bad?"

"No," John said quietly, a small smile on his face as he gently shook his head. He remained quiet for a moment, completely transfixed on Sherlock in this proximity. "So, we're in this then?" he asked, eyes bright. "We're really doing this?"

Sherlock swallowed, blinking back the stinging tears. Stupid, useless things. He wasn't sad. He nodded. "Yes. We are," he said, eyes flicking back and forth between John's to ascertain that he really, truly wanted this. Wouldn't leave. Sherlock licked his lips. "So... Does that mean I'm allowed to..." He trailed off, face heating as he glanced at John's mouth.

John inhaled as Sherlock's gaze fell, his lips parting slightly as his own eyes shifted downwards.

"I, uh," he murmured, blatantly staring at Sherlock's lips, feeling the years of wondering what they would feel like against his own culminating in what soon could be a very real possibility. "Techincally, I erm," he breathily whispered, words lost even to himself. "I'm still with...Mary right now, and..." Wrong, yes, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore. They were too close, it would be too easy to close the distance, reach for what he wanted so, so badly. His face had moved forward a few inches of its own volition, moving closer into Sherlock's space, and he just subtly nodded. Nodded, and waited.

Sherlock's eyes widened in alarm. "Oh god," he said, stumbling backwards. "That's right, you're... I'm so sorry, I don't know what I was thinking... That was incredibly stupid of me..." He babbled, running a hand through his hair as his eyes flitted wildly around the room. Anywhere but at John. He was absolutely mortified, mentally smacking himself. How could he be so stupid? John was still going through something incredibly painful, and leaving someone he loved. But Sherlock had been sucked in, lost in their own little bubble of sentiment, drowning in their happiness and confessions. But that was no excuse. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

John gaped at Sherlock, trying not to keep his disappointment evident as he watched the man's anxious movements. So damn close.

"Hey," he finally said, cautiously stretching his hands out towards Sherlock, who wouldn't meet his gaze. "No, no, no, none of that, okay? Wasn't your fault. I wanted it, really I did. I just-" He sighed and looked down, a small chuckle escaping his lips. "I think I've got some things to settle, don't I?"

Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself down. "I... Yes, I suppose so," he agreed, now feeling less mortified and more... disappointed? "I am sorry, though," he added. "I know this is going to be difficult for you, and I know there isn't really any way I can help." He peeked up at John and smiled shyly. "...I wanted it too," he admitted softly.

John smiled warmly, his arms relaxing and returning to his sides. "I think I should go," he said, nodding slowly. "I need to talk it out with her, I don't want to wait any longer. It's not fair to either of us, and honestly, I just...I need to come home."

Sherlock nodded. "Home. I, uh..." He chuckled gently. "I love the sound of that." He took John's hand and squeezed it once. "I wish I could help you," he added softly. "I hate the idea of you having to do something so upsetting all by yourself." Screwing up his courage, Sherlock stepped forward and pressed a lingering kiss to John's temple. "Good luck," he whispered.

John smiled at the contact, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Thank you," he said, running his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. He squeezed the warm hand in his before loosening his hold, fingers lightly drifting across Sherlock's as he stepped away. "I'll be okay. Be with you soon, alright?" he said with a grin as he turned and headed to retrieve his jacket. He left the flat, standing tall, his posture exuding his optimism and hope for the future. 

* * *

Two days later, John found himself sitting alone at the kitchen table in his and Mary's shared flat. He could hear her moving around their bedroom, getting herself ready to head out and run several errands. He rolled his mobile phone in his fingers, lost in himself, unaware of just how long he was sitting there until he heard the front door open and close. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a few seconds, before finally looking down to his mobile and bringing up the messaging screen.

I'm sorry I haven't responded. We need to talk. -JW

It's been two days. What's going on? -SH

Mary knows, I told her everything, absolutely everything after I last saw you. I told her, and she told me something. She's pregnant. Everything, my fault, everything's always my fault, and I'm so sorry. -JW

[delayed] Oh. I see. -SH

She's carrying my child, and we both know I'm in love with someone else. This wasn't supposed to happen. It can't happen. -JW

Obviously it is. -SH  
I'm not a fool, John. I understand what comes next. I'm certain you and your family will be very happy. -SH

We're not getting married. Mary and I have decided that much and called it off, but I need time. I don't know if there's still any chance at you and me right now, but if you feel there still could be, I'm asking you to please hold on. I don't know what's going to happen Sherlock, I don't know. But I meant every word I said to you, and I'll downright beg, please, let me have some time to figure this out. -JW

[delayed] It was hard enough letting you give up your future wife for me. Now you're asking me to let you consider leaving your wife and unborn child? For me. -SH  
I don't know if I could ever live with myself, John. I don't deserve you. And you deserve so much more. -SH

So, this is it then. What, I stay here with Mary and the baby, and you? You stay on your own?  Sherlock, you've got to know that things won't be the same if we leave it all here. If this is how it ends. It can't; they'll be too much left behind. I know what I'm asking. I know exactly how wrong it is, how incredibly selfish I'm being. But this isn't my life, this isn't what I wanted, I didn't plan for this and telling me to just accept that because of what I deserve or don't deserve isn't fair. This is what happens out there in the real world, and I understand why you try so hard to eliminate any semblance of feelings from yourself, because they're powerful and messy and oh so fucking complicated. I'm terrified right now. Terrified. But Sherlock, I have to believe that you still want me, I have to, because that's all I'm holding onto right now. -JW

Of course I still want you, John. More than I've ever wanted anything in my life. -SH  
But it's not about me. I just want what will make you happiest. Whatever you decide, I will always, _always_  be there for you. No matter what. -SH  
I just... If this has to end, I wish we could have... Well. -SH

I know. Even if we were to just have one night, just to know, just to be...okay, Christ, I'm going to ask something completely irrational, so please feel free to stop me. Hypothetically, if we were to have tonight, just us, nothing else attached for just that one night...do you feel that would complicate everything more or would you imagine it'd be able to give a sense of closure in case everything goes to hell? -JW

I... I honestly don't know. -SH  
There's a part of me that thinks it's a terrible, awful idea. But the rest of me... wants it. -SH  
I don't know which to listen to. -SH  
Are you sure it's wise? -SH

No, I'm not sure. I can't say how we would feel afterwards, and I don't know if it would help accomplish anything. This could really hurt the both of us emotionally when everything's over and done with, I don't know. I don't have an answer, but...I still want it. Want you. And if you'll have me, I'll be there as soon as I can. But it's in your hands, okay? I know I'm in the wrong here, and I don't deserve you, don't deserve this, definitely don't deserve to touch you and kiss you...so last thing I want is for you to feel obligated. -JW

The last thing you could ever make me feel is obligated. -SH  
I'm the one who doesn't deserve you, remember? I want anything you are willing to give me. We can figure everything else out later. -SH

Okay. Let me pack up a bag, and I'll be there as soon as I can. -JW

Yes. Okay. -SH

 


	3. Chapter 3

John's small duffel bag hung off his shoulder as he unlocked the door to 221B, a heavy yawn escaping his lips regardless of the adrenaline coursing through his body. He knew his severe lack of sleep these last two days made him look worse for wear; he had cringed at himself in his own bedroom mirror as he packed to leave. He really looked awful and he sighed, hoping that somehow Sherlock would still find him attractive.

"Sherlock?" he called through the flat after stepping inside and locking the door behind him.

Sherlock came out of the kitchen, where he had been carefully preparing tea for John. He noticed the bags around his eyes, as well as the rigid tension that belied both stress and... self-consciousness?

Yes, the lines of his shoulders were curled in slightly, indicating earlier self-criticism. Clearly Mary and already seen him like this, and therefore was used to it. Which meant that John was worried about Sherlock still finding him attractive. Without a word, he gently took the duffel bag from John's shoulder, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thump. Then he wrapped his arms around John and pulled him into a tight embrace, burying his face in John's temple.

The desperately needed contact made John feel secure and yet incredibly vulnerable at the same time, and he trembled with the effort to contain himself. His breath came quicker and he clutched hard at Sherlock, his hands wound under the man's arms and pulling down on his shoulders to keep him close as the true capacity of recent events caught up with him. For about a minute all he could hear around him was the sound of his own pained cries, the shaky sobs that evaporated into Sherlock's chest, the rise and fall of which provided him with comfort. He only allowed himself that release for a small time, and when he felt he could speak again, he hastily wiped at his wet eyes with a knuckle, eliminating as much of the evidence as he could. He exhaled deeply, his remained grip on Sherlock going slack.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I didn't want to do that."

"No," Sherlock argued, his voice low and hoarse. "Don't do that. I didn't mind." He swiped gently at John's eye with his thumb, then cupped his neck softly. "If that's what you need, then that is what I will help you do." He swallowed and shifted his gaze. "I... I made tea. If you want it." The corner of his mouth twitched up. "It's not drugged. You don't have to worry."

John snorted, a smile gracing his face for the first time in days. "Yeah...yeah, I'd like that."

Sherlock led them to the kitchen, pouring their tea and handing John's mug to him in silence. Then he took a sip of his own, stomach churning with nerves. How was this meant to go? He had assumed from their texts that they were planning on having sex. Was that still something John wanted? Or would he apologise to Sherlock? Tell him this wasn't going to work? And if he did still want it to happen, Sherlock had absolutely no idea how to go about initiating it. Should he start slowly, with soft kisses and gentle hands? Or should it be passionate and thoughtless? Sherlock absolutely did not have the experience required for this, and for the first time in his life, he cursed his own bloody innocence. 

John stood against the kitchen counter, feeling boneless in both his exhaustion and the satisfying warmth of the tea running down his throat. He kept his eyes trained on Sherlock in between slow sips, just watching and knowing very well that the man had retreated into himself, into his thoughts as he so often did. Once John had finished with his cup, he set it down on the kitchen table, then reached for the nearly untouched mug still in Sherlock's hands, and set that down as well. He fixed his eyes on Sherlock, and gave a small warm smile before slowly tipping himself up to press his lips against Sherlock's cheek, the motion lingering for several seconds. He brought himself back down, eyes shifting between Sherlock's, searching. "It's okay," he said with a small nod, running the tips of his fingers along the palms of Sherlock's lowered hands. "It's okay."

The air left Sherlock's chest in a sharp exhale, leaving him a bit lightheaded. Even as John pulled away, Sherlock could feel the burn of his lips lingering on his cheek, as though it were glowing. Suddenly it all seemed so incredibly easy. He loved John. John loved him. They would figure everything out later, but for now they had each other. And that would be enough. Without over thinking it and freaking himself out, Sherlock tightened his hold on John's hands and swiftly leaned in to press an achingly sweet, desperate kiss to John's lips.

John's eyes fell shut as their lips connected, the pressure light but loaded with feeling. He had almost expected it to feel different in technicality; like somehow kissing a man would be much different from kissing a woman. It wasn't though, not much in that sense, anyway. However, it definitely felt distinct somehow, and his mind worked rapidly to figure out why. He grinned against Sherlock's gentle kiss, satisfied at the certain simple words buzzing across his mind.

_Sherlock. Sherlock. Mine._

He disconnected the kiss briefly, eyes still closed as he pressed his forehead up to Sherlock's, their breath mingling in the small space. A content sigh escaped him and he tilted his head, blindly seeking out Sherlock's lips once more, one hand raising up to rub across the nape of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock shivered at the breathy sigh John let out after their lips disconnected. The shivers increased rapidly as John ran his hand across the sensitive nape of Sherlock's neck, taking his lips again. He squirmed under the onslaught of sensation, positively drowning in the feel of John's warm lips, his hand, his breath.

God, it was _incredible_.

Sherlock had never felt his stomach clench so deliciously, his nerve endings instantly sparking to life. He reached his hands up and grasped John's face, kissing him more fiercely as his body began to burn. He pushed back against John until his friend was landed against the kitchen wall, and Sherlock groaned helplessly. He was finally not thinking, only feeling. And Jesus Christ, did it feel good. He was completely, utterly lost.

John's moan when his back hit the wall drowned into Sherlock's lips; his hands roaming up and down Sherlock's sides; sliding up around his neck, tracing down his arms, firmly grabbing at the detective's hips, keeping him close. He nipped lightly at Sherlock's bottom lip among deep, breathless kisses, his entire body tingling and responding to the sensory input, to the sounds Sherlock was making. This was just so different from anything he'd ever experienced before; never had he known this kind of critical need, and he clung to Sherlock for dear life, breathing heavy, air thick around them.

Sherlock held on for as long as possible before he had to pull away with a sharp gasp to breathe. Boring, perhaps, but it turned out that breathing was also too necessary. He clutched John tightly and took in deep lungfuls of air.

"Sorry," he gasped hoarsely, his head spinning rapidly. "I just... It was..."

John laughed, feeling incredibly giddy and lightheaded, and he was reminded of that same breathless euphoria he experienced the day they met, after Sherlock had him running all over London.

"You are...bloody brilliant," he panted with a grin. "Just, wow..." He pressed his head further back against the wall, giving himself a second to catch his own breath.

Sherlock could have wept, watching John laugh, smile. Knowing he caused that. He grinned back, blinking back hot tears as he leaned down to rub his nose against John's. "I love you," he murmured against John's lips. Then he trailed his own along John's jawline, down his throat with slow, hot, open-mouthed kisses. "Love you," he kept whispering between each press of lips. "Love you... Love you... So much... I..." He briefly closed his eyes, trying to keep himself in control. " _God_ , John... This is..." Sherlock couldn't even describe everything he was feeling. He had no name for it. Even "love" seemed inconsequential. It just... wasn't enough.

John closed his eyes once Sherlock started down his throat, gasping lightly and tilting his head to give him more access. He would never get used to those words leaving Sherlock's lips, nor the unhindered affection he now provided; everything seemed so surreal, and John never wanted it to end.

"Sh-Sherlock," he said quietly, swallowing, "I think we should move this. Otherwise I don't think we're leaving the kitchen..."

Sherlock huffed out a small laugh before grabbing John's hand tightly and walking them away from the kitchen wall. Then he paused. A flush crept up the back of his neck as he realized that this was actually about to happen. A surge of nervous adrenaline shot through him, and he was mortified to realize he was trembling.

"I'm... I don't..." he took a deep calming breath. "I'm not entirely sure what to do now," he confessed. "This isn't quite my area of expertise."

"And that's okay," John said, noting the trembling and squeezing Sherlock's hand in reassurance. "I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing either." He gently pulled Sherlock along to head back and retrieve the bag he left by the front door, placing the strap back on his shoulder. "Your room?" he asked. "We can talk it through, figure out what we're going to do, we don't need to rush it. We've got all night, okay?"

Sherlock nodded jerkily. He followed John into his own room, grasping John's hand tightly. Once they closed the bedroom door behind them, Sherlock leaned against it and looked John up and down. "I can't believe this is happening," he breathed.

John smiled, stepping close and reaching up to take Sherlock's face in his hands. He watched him for a second, his thumbs brushing lightly over prominent cheekbones before he leaned in and kissed him; a gentle, comforting press of lips. "C'mon," he said once back, cocking his head towards the bed. "Come lie with me for second." He stepped away to set his bag down near one side of the bed, and climbed on, leaning himself against the headboard and crossing his ankles as he patted the space next to him.

Sherlock hesitated, then slowly made his way over to the bed. He sat down next to John and mimicked his pose, awkwardly laying his sweaty palms on his thighs. He turned his head towards John and smiled crookedly. "I don't think this particular positioning is going to lead anywhere," he joked stiffly. Then he licked his lips and stretched his hand out, palm up.

An invitation.

John stared at Sherlock's hand for a moment, before grinning and taking it with one of his own. He brought their hands down to the bed, before scooting and leaning over closer, his other hand running through the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck to pull them together. He kissed him, slow but deep, the action alone starting to warm him up again after the brief respite while they moved locations. After a moment he boldly shifted, climbing over the sitting man's lap to kiss his way along his jaw.

"I need to know how you want this," he lowly whispered into Sherlock's ear. "Before we get too out of control. I want this to be your choice, whatever you're most comfortable with right now. Sherlock, I will do whatever you want, anything you want. I can take you, you can take me, it's all fine..." he murmured, bringing his lips to Sherlock's cheek and pressing them against his skin.

Sherlock was absolutely _wracked_  with the shudder that went through him as John straddled his lap. His head thumped back painfully against the headboard, but that mouth felt glorious against the skin of his throat, slowly taking him apart. Sherlock bit back his groans as long as he could, but couldn't hold back the pathetic whimper that escaped when he felt John's warm breath in his ear, his words like a flame against his skin. When he was finally able to concentrate on the words, Sherlock nearly doubled over at the bolt of lust that shot through his abdomen into his groin, only a little embarrassed to realise that John would be able to feel his hardening erection. Sherlock licked his lips and tried to speak around the desperate, burning emotions.

"I... er..." He swallowed again. "I— I want..." What _didn't_ he want with John?

"Anything. Everything. Anything you'll give me," he finally admitted in a large whoosh of air. Then he shook his head a bit to clear it, really thinking about John's question. He bit his lips and looked at John cautiously. "But I... I like the idea of you... taking me," Sherlock finished in a very small voice. And he did. He really, really did. He'd thought about it before, obviously, but he had never thought it could become such a real possibility. His hips bucked up reflexively at the thought, causing him to cry out softly in surprise.

"Christ," John groaned as Sherlock's hips snapped up, the foreign pressure feeling really good against him.

"You sir," he laughed once he recovered, "are going to be the death of me." He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock, thinking back to his answer, and when he pulled back he was absolutely beaming.

"And God yes, I can do that," he said, grinning brilliantly. "I'd bloody love to do that." He brought his lips to Sherlock's throat, slowly dragging them down until they met with the collar of his shirt.

"But first," he murmured, his tongue darting out to run over a small patch of skin, "I'd really, _really_  like to get you naked."

Sherlock groaned helplessly, then bit his lip to stop embarrassing himself further. He nodded. "Yes. Yes, please." Sherlock raised shaking hands to unbutton his own shirt before realizing that he'd much rather get his hands on John's. He immediately began tugging at John's hateful jumper, his pulse beating harshly against his every nerve.

"Off!" he managed impatiently, latching onto the skin of John's throat.

"God, Sherlock," John whined, his head falling back as he gave himself a few seconds to enjoy the sensation before pushing him off. His hands fell down to the hem of his jumper and with Sherlock's assistance he pulled it over his head and threw it far off, hearing the fabric fall somewhere to the floor. He felt far, far too hot, and he knew his love of layers was only partially to blame; a frustrated groan left him as his fingers fumbled with the first two buttons on his shirt before flying to Sherlock's to start undoing his.

It was a bit awkward, really, trying to undo John's shirt buttons while John's hands kept bumping his in attempt to claw at his own. But Sherlock could feel the adrenaline coursing through him. It was odd, as though his mind was completely shut down, but at the same time noticing every minute detail. Such as the timbre of John's groans, the warm huff of his panting breath, his rapidly hardening erection against Sherlock's.

Finally, _finally_ , Sherlock was able to rip at John's buttons enough to yank the shirt down his arms and somewhere on the floor. Once John's skin was finally underneath his, Sherlock ran his shaking palms up his burning chest. He exhaled in an odd sort of relief, running his hands back down over John's abdomen, scratching lightly.

"John," he murmured before pressing a kiss to John's scar. "Oh, Christ. This is bloody fantastic..." he moaned happily against the marked skin.

John gasped sharply when Sherlock's lips met the scar near his shoulder; it was an area that was often ignored by others he had slept with, and Sherlock didn't even give him time to be self-conscious about it. Go figure he'd find it fascinating. John laughed briefly to himself, reveling in the feel of Sherlock's fingers running up and down his skin, and he so desperately wanted to do that for Sherlock. He finally got the last button done, and he roughly tugged down Sherlock's shirt to his elbows; his palms firmly rounding over Sherlock's shoulders and down his upper arms before pulling each arm free from the sleeves.

Sherlock shuddered violently with a small whimper as he pressed their bare chests together, accidentally nipping at the skin of John's shoulder. "Sorry," he gasped with his lips still pressed against John's shoulder. He dragged them down John's pectorals, nipping and sucking along the way as he reached a nipple. Sherlock focused his attention there, fascinated by the way it pebbled under his fingers and tongue. He brushed his teeth very lightly against the nub, curious to see what reaction he could elicit with this form of stimulation.

John was a _wreck_. He couldn't hold back the breathy whimpers and moans that grew in volume even if he wanted to. He was so sensitive there, and he felt certain that all it would take was one more lick, one more drag of teeth before he spontaneously burst into flames. Which, his hazed mind dumbly provided, would be very unfortunate given how fucking lucky he felt having Sherlock like this and how much he never wanted this to end. But no, no, no, this wouldn't do, too many clothes, still so many clothes.

John reached back to throw off his shoes, leaving him wide open to Sherlock's onslaught, and after a bout of squirming and twisting, he got Sherlock's off and tossed to the floor as well. When he turned back around he all but pounced, aggressively pulling Sherlock down until he lay flat on the bed, growling deep in his throat as he hovered over him and mouthed at Sherlock's long, elegant neck. He acknowledged the sudden, desperate need to mark Sherlock, to leave some form of evidence of their encounter, even if no one else saw it. Ridiculous, stupid, primal notion, but John found himself biting down hard at the base of his neck anyway, licking and sucking a mark into his skin.

"Ahh—!" Sherlock cried loudly, arching himself almost painfully into John's attentions. "Oh god, oh god, John... Yes. _Please_. Bloody hell–!"

He bit his lip sharply to choke back the noises, realising he was babbling like an idiot. But then he realised that John was _marking_  him. For the next few days or so, he would be walking around with a large purple bruise on the base of his neck that may as well have 'Property of John Watson' stamped across it. Even though a part of him was still aware that this, whatever they were doing, could be well gone by then, he thrilled fiercely at the thought of being _John's_. Just for this moment, _he_  was John's. Not Mary.  _He_ was the one that John wanted to mark. Wanted to love. Wanted to be _his_. Sherlock nearly sobbed at the very idea of it, and coupled with what John and his clever tongue were currently doing to him, he cried out again, unable to muffle himself this time.

"Oh _fuck_ , John!" he gasped brokenly.

John breathed heavily into Sherlock's neck, his cock twitching within his jeans at hearing Sherlock cry out for him. He ground his hips down, rubbing them firmly along the detective's, the pressure almost painful against his clothed erection, and yet, not enough. Christ he wanted so much, so so much, wanted to give Sherlock so much, and his body absolutely trembled with it. He pulled back a bit to look at his handiwork; Sherlock's skin a deep, blotchy red where he had worked at him, and a feeling of smug satisfaction ran through him. He would bruise so beautifully within the next few days, but he shook his head to clear the thought; he couldn't bring himself to think about the next few days, not right now. He dipped down, running his fingertips down Sherlock's sides, feeling the smooth, exposed, perfect skin beneath him. His mouth was everywhere, kissing along his arms, on the inside of his wrists, up his jaw then down to his chest, lathering special attention to his nipples, his tongue running over them in mindless patterns again and again.

"Gorgeous," he breathed on route to Sherlock's navel, kissing it and slowly nuzzling his face along the light patch of hair that disappeared under the man's belt, completely intoxicated.

Sherlock was absolutely _writhing_  under this delicious onslaught. He feared for a moment he would simply black out from pleasure, and would be sorely disappointed to miss everything John was doing to his body.

John.

He was completely turning Sherlock inside out, and Sherlock had no words to describe it. None. It was far beyond anything he had ever imagined, actually having John kiss his way down his body, laving over his—surprisingly sensitive —nipples, feeling the patch of skin on his neck throb and ache fantastically. He arched and tensed and arched again, muttering desperately, incoherently. Sick of feeling cool scratchy sheets gripped tightly in his fingers, he unclenched a trembling hand to stroke fervently through John's hair. Through this impossible haze of lust, Sherlock heard John's murmured compliment. He laughed sharply, more of a huff of panting air than anything else. He licked his lips and whimpered.

"Not...I'm not," he disagreed, opening his eyes to glance down at John. _That_  was a mistake. He had to clench his eyes back shut and throw his head back again. " _You_  are. Bloody gorgeous man..." He whimpered again and bit his lip, feeling a twinge of annoyance at himself for letting his mouth carry on in this way. Once this was all over, he was going to be absolutely mortified at how pathetic he sounded.

"I wish that you could see what I see," John said quietly, tone low and serious as his thumbs rubbed against Sherlock's hipbones. He watched Sherlock's face for a minute, before making his way back up his body and resting his arms and chin on Sherlock's chest. "Sherlock," he murmured, prompting the man to open his eyes. "Hey, there you are."

He gently smiled, eyes drifting all over Sherlock's face, memorizing. "Because if you could...I see such a beautiful, ridiculously sexy and clever man. I see my best friend, the one I'm in love with. I could literally go on all day with how attractive you are, with how damn _smart_ you are, and I gladly will, when you want to listen." He smiled, pushing himself up to hover over Sherlock, kissing him softly.

"But for the love of God can I please take your trousers off?" he begged after a moment, grinning into the kiss.

Sherlock blinked back tears, overwhelmed by the beautiful things John was saying to him. His smile was watery as he replied, "I'm... I don't know how to respond. Because... God, John. I don't have words to describe what you mean to me. What _this_  means to me. I never thought..." He sniffed quietly and turned his head to the side, raising a hand to swipe quickly at his eyes and feeling vulnerable. Exposed.

"I never thought I could have this. Least of all with you." Satisfied that no more blasted tears would escape, Sherlock turned his head back to face John again. "You are...extraordinary. Endlessly fascinating. I don't...I have no idea what I've done in my life to deserve you." He swallowed thickly and pressed his lips to John's, slow and desperate and longing and unbearably sad. "I love you," Sherlock murmured against his lips before clearing his throat and snapping himself out of it. He smiled. "And I will of course be very put-out if you don't remove my trousers, and yours, within the next thirty seconds."

Sherlock's undeniable display of emotion had John's own eyes stinging, and he looked up and away, intent on blinking back the wetness. After taking a second to a control himself, he kissed Sherlock hard for good measure before sliding back down and sitting up on the man's thighs. His fingers slowly reached for Sherlock's belt, their eyes fixed on each other as he undid it and lifted up Sherlock's hips to pull it free from the loops. Once finished, he tossed it somewhere to his side, breaking eye contact to bend down and kiss just above Sherlock's trousers. He carefully released the button and lowered the zip, his breathing starting to pick up again as his fingers hooked in the detective's trousers and he began to tug them down his hips, a long exhale leaving him as more and more of that glorious, pale skin became exposed.

Sherlock's low moan sounded strangled even to his own ears. Most of his embarrassment burnt away by friction and John's heated stare, Sherlock raised his hips impatiently. It was more of a thrust, really, but it seemed to do the job as John began to slip his tight, clinging trousers off. He bit his lip and panted through his nose.

A small voice in the back of his head, despite all of John's reassurances, panicked over whether being actually confronted with Sherlock's unavoidable male equipment would frighten him. Disgust him. Without meaning to, Sherlock subconsciously and minutely curled in on himself. His legs were covered in coarse, dark hair where John was surely used to smooth skin. His cock was... well. Certainly not what John normally dealt with when with a sexual partner. Sherlock mentally tried to snap himself out of it. John wasn't an idiot. He knew what he was getting himself into, and hadn't been put off in the slightest by Sherlock's lack of breasts. John loved him, he reassured the annoyingly self-conscious voice. John _wanted_  him. Sherlock wriggled more eagerly out of his trousers before determinedly setting to work on John's.

John couldn't take his eyes off of Sherlock's lower half as he pulled at Sherlock's socks, leaving him clad in nothing but a pair of pants.

'Stop staring', his mind berated, 'you're going to freak him out, you bloody idiot'.

He tried, he really did, but he just couldn't manage to tear his eyes away; Sherlock in his underwear making a permanent home in his mind as the most arousing thing he had ever seen. He snapped out of it only when he felt long, clever fingers undoing his jeans, and in the next instant he had grabbed Sherlock's face, and began kissing the living daylights out of him. He knew he was probably making Sherlock's task difficult, his arms wrapping around Sherlock's neck, barely even giving him a chance to breathe, but John was so ridiculously appreciative of what he had just witnessed that he just needed Sherlock to _know_.

"Christ," John cursed into Sherlock's lips. "Fucking gorgeous man, fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Oh fuck, John," Sherlock gasped into the kiss, echoing John. His words sent a painful bolt of lust into his groin and he bucked up again, growling in annoyance as he fumbled with the damned jeans clasp. He broke away from the kiss and glanced down, jaw clenched in utter frustration as he yanked harder at the button. "Damn it," he muttered angrily.

John lightly slapped Sherlock's hands away, his own reaching to get the jeans down as fast as possible. "Oh thank God-" He nearly yelled as he finally got the clasp undone and the zip pulled down. John threw himself on his back, wriggling wildly to get out of the damn jeans, face flushed as he panted heavily in his body's attempt to regulate his breathing.  

Feeling cold without John's body against his, Sherlock rolled himself over to straddle his friends shins. He grasped the top hem of the jeans and yanked forcefully, _finally_  slipping them off of John's legs and throwing them to the side. He barely registered the soft flump of fabric hitting the wall. "Jesus," he breathed before swooping down to press hard kisses to John's abdomen. He frantically worked his way down, not even hesitating to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the bulge in John's boxers, hands gripping at John's thighs.

The reaction was instant, John gasping loudly in surprise as his head flew back, his lower back arching several inches off the bed. "Oh God, Sherlock," he deeply moaned, thrusting up towards him and spreading his legs the little he could with Sherlock's hands holding his thighs. One hand moved to lace his fingers through Sherlock's curls, John's eyes heavy and dark, his arousal showing blatantly on his face. "Christ, the things I am going to do to you, I swear..." he sharply whispered. 

Sherlock grinned in delight, eyes glowing wildly. He carefully eased John's pants down his legs and threw them to the side as well before spreading John's legs apart further. Sherlock leaned down to nose and kiss and nibble at the skin of John's thighs, working his way back up until he could get a good look at John, all of John. It was breathtaking. Sherlock stared reverently for a moment, taking in this last piece of the puzzle to complete his mental map of John Watson. Thoroughly turned on by John's control dissolving, Sherlock leaned down and kissed softly up his friends aching cock, flicking his tongue out to taste here and there. Especially near the head, where he swirled a bit. John's taste was stronger here, he catalogued. He inhaled the warm heady scent of John's arousal and felt woozy with pleasure. He'd never thought that giving another person oral stimulation could be so pleasurable for the giver. Sherlock was elated to find that he had been wrong. So very, utterly, _beautifully_  wrong.

John was a cursing, writhing _mess_. Sherlock's mouth on him while he explored was a thousand times better than he ever imagined, and oh had he imagined. He was losing himself, he could feel it, standing on the very precipice of control and falling fast. He ran his fingers along Sherlock's scalp, encouragingly, his sharp exhales seeming insanely loud in the otherwise quiet room. The imagery was too much, and he forced himself to look away, desperate to hold on to whatever was left of his control. 

Through the haze of fierce possession Sherlock felt, making John feel this way, coming apart at the bloody seams, Sherlock realized that John was going to come. Very soon, if he didn't stop what he was doing. And Sherlock had just enough sense left to remember that that wasn't how he wanted John to come. He wanted John to take him, for them to be connected in a way that could never be forgotten or deleted. Eyes clenched in concentration, Sherlock drew his mouth away from John's cock, now glistening beautifully with Sherlock's saliva.

John shook violently as Sherlock removed himself, his body on the edge of an imminent orgasm. He breathed deep for a long while, keeping himself still and closing his eyes to remove any sensory input. When he felt he had calmed enough he pulled Sherlock up and kissed him deep, able to taste a bit of himself on Sherlock's lips and tongue, a tangible reminder of where he had just been.

And shit,  _that_  was arousing.

John was suddenly surprised he had even lasted this long, and realized he needed to move along quickly if he had a chance at keeping himself grounded. He carefully set Sherlock down on his back next to him, then propped himself up on an elbow, reaching down and hooking his fingers in a side seam of Sherlock's pants. The texture felt smooth and pleasant against his fingers, and he slowly tugged down, his fingertips sliding to the other side and pulling down there as well. He lowered them as far he could reach, eyes dark as he held the back of Sherlock's thigh, lifting it towards him, prompting him to individually lift each leg and kick them off the rest of the way down. Once off, John finally gave himself a proper look, his breath completely leaving him.

He was a doctor, he had seen several men half-naked in his practice, but this was different in every single way. Never before had he thought a man's prick to be something that could turn him on, but Jesus Christ, Sherlock was _gorgeous_. Just as gorgeous here as he was everywhere else. He splayed his hand out over Sherlock's abdomen, eyes darting to Sherlock's face to check if this was okay, and after a few seconds he lowered his hand, cupping Sherlock's hardened erection. He groaned at the warmth, then teasingly trailed his middle finger from base to tip where he took light hold and circled with his thumb, a few small beads of pre-come collecting at the top. He had to admit there was a small part of him was nervous; he didn't have any experience with a cock other than his own, so he only to knew to base it off what he liked and what if Sherlock's tastes were different? But the other part was so damn curious and aroused by the weight in his hand, and his tentative touches grew bolder. Never in his life would he have imagined liking this as much as he did, and it just proved that the hold Sherlock had on him was all-encompassing. He leaned forward on his elbow to slowly kiss Sherlock's cheek, his own flushed while he continued. 

Sherlock's eyes snapped open the moment John touched him there, before clenching tightly shut against his will.

"Ohhh, fuck!" he cried, suddenly finding it difficult to support himself on shaky arms. Sherlock collapsed a bit and grabbed desperately at John, burying his face in John’s shoulder and thrusting erratically into his fist. Sherlock felt hot, prickling in his own skin. No one had ever touched him like this, ever seen him like this. It made every sensation so much more intense.

"John, John, John, John," he chanted in a whisper, nearly sobbing with pleasure at the sensations John was causing with his simple, effective touches. It had all happened so quickly, he didn't even have time to worry whether or not John liked what he saw, directly being faced with the evidence of Sherlock's masculinity, his cock desperately hard and leaking and aching and  _throbbing_. Sherlock was at the edge very quickly.

"This is... I can't... I don't... I've never..." His wild snapping of hips accidentally caused him to brush against John's arousal with his own, and Sherlock nearly blacked out. "Fuuuck," he drew out into another sob. "John, please. _Please_..." Sherlock was close. Very close, and he couldn't clear his head enough to stop what he was doing. And Jesus Christ, that was a frightening concept. The choking panic of not being able to think consumed him for a moment, before John's hand and John's moans and John's mouth in his ear reminded him that this was okay, and that he didn't have to be in control all the time. He could trust John with that control. He shivered and panted and fucked into John's fist faster, harder, loud cries and moans of John's name mixed with curses and pleas. "I love you," he even managed to choke out against John's throat at one point.

There was no way in hell he was going to be able to stop this, John immediately concluded; no way in hell he'd want to. Not with the way words were falling unhindered from Sherlock's mouth, not with the way Sherlock had absolutely lost himself, giving himself up to John, completely trusting him. John pulled his hand back only to lick rapidly at his palm, slickening it, before bringing it back to where Sherlock needed him most right now. He sped up his motions and started twisting his wrist on the upstroke, Sherlock absolutely falling apart next to him. God he wanted to see him come completely undone, he _needed_ to see Sherlock completely undone.

"Come for me Sherlock," John gasped hot and heavy into his ear. "It's okay, I've got you. Come for me..."

"Yes," Sherlock gasped. His entire body tightened and quivered and then tightened impossibly further as his hips snapped and his cock slid rapidly in John's tight palm. "Yes, yes, _yes_."

Sherlock raised his hand to settle on John's face, petting and stroking in order to feel more of John, more everything. He gasped and whimpered and squirmed as his orgasm crested and he was suddenly there, right there. He just... He needed... Sherlock surged forward to capture John's lips just before his orgasm overtook him—the first orgasm he had ever experienced with another person. The most intense one he had ever experienced, period. He couldn't maintain the kiss as he came, needing to throw his head back to breathe. His body stilled, only jerking occasionally as he damn near screamed his orgasm.

"John, oh John, oh fucking hell, love, I love..." His jaw dropped and the words cut off abruptly as this peak of pleasure went on and on and _on_. Finally it subsided a bit, and Sherlock was uncomfortably aware that he was practically sobbing, the feeling had been so intense. "Ohhhh... Christ," he gasped.

John worked Sherlock through his orgasm, his own chest heaving, fully aware that he may not have a mind palace, but this image would be embedded in his mind for the rest of his life. John couldn't even bring himself to speak at first, completely fixated on the residual shivers still coursing through Sherlock; his hand finally ceasing motion as Sherlock became hypersensitive. John's hand and Sherlock's lower stomach were covered in ejaculate, and John gently ran his free hand through Sherlock's hair, needing first and foremost to check that Sherlock was okay before moving to clean up.

"You are beautiful, Christ, you are beautiful, I love you..." he slowly whispered, reaching forward to lay a long kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "Was it...was it okay? Are you okay?" he asked quietly, his thumb brushing along his scalp. 

"Okay?" Sherlock asked in disbelief, head still spinning. " _Okay?_  John, that was... It was..." He couldn't begin to explain, eyes flicking wildly around the room as though he could find the answer there.

Suddenly, his gaze dropped and he noticed John's erection, still more than a little interested in the proceedings. Sherlock licked his lips. "I think it's your turn," he rumbled, voice hoarse and relaxed from renewing arousal. Then he cleared his throat. "If you still wanted... I mean, I am perfectly happy to do whatever you like, but if you're still interested, I'd love it if...that is, you can..." He bit his lip as he considered his words, then decided to just show John what he meant.

Sherlock threw a pleasure-heavy leg over John's calf, then grabbed John's hand and wrapped it around to rest on his backside. Sherlock squeezed the hand a bit before letting go and waiting for John's decision.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's going down. I'm yelling timberrrr....
> 
> GOD I JUST REALLY LOVE THIS RP


	4. Chapter 4

John's mind near imploded. Sherlock kept outdoing himself, each of his actions probably seeming so simple to him but incredibly, ridiculously sexy to John. He captured Sherlock's lips, kissing him hard, his hand firmly rubbing back and forth across the skin of Sherlock's arse, pulling him right against him each time. He exhaled deeply into Sherlock, his hand slipping down into his cleft, his middle finger intently sliding up and down, then circling Sherlock's entrance.

God how he wanted.

" _Fuck_ ," John growled, low and coarse, his hardened cock throbbing in anticipation. He swallowed, his throat feeling thick, and he looked at Sherlock, their lips still close and brushing. 

"Can you lie down on your stomach for right now? It's going to take me awhile to get you ready, and that'll give me the most access to do that."

Sherlock nodded and scrambled onto his stomach as eagerly as he could in his lethargic state. This position made him feel more exposed, but he realized it wasn't a bad feeling. In fact, sensing John's eyes roving over his back made sparks of thrill shoot down his back, into his surprisingly responsive cock. Sherlock laid on his stomach and lifted his chest, bracing himself on his elbows. He looked down at himself in confusion, then turned his face to the side.

"John, I'm...it's already..." He looked back down at himself. "I don't claim to have the expertise in this area, so I may be wrong, but...is it normal for me to already be... erm..." He huffed out a short laugh. " _Interested_ , again?"

"Sherlock, you are years overdue on good orgasms," John laughed. "I wouldn't be surprised if you're turning back on all throughout the night." He leaned down, laying long kisses to each of Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Mmm, I'm a lucky man," he grinned, before temporarily moving away to lean over the bed and reach for the overnight bag he had brought with him. He didn't bother to bring it to the bed, instead preferring to hang half over the edge as he opened the zip and dug through it. He moved over his change of clothes and toiletries within the bag, seeking out the bottle of lube he had brought. When he found it, he reached behind him to put it on the bed then paused, his fingers meeting with foil packets.

"Sherlock," he asked, "I've been recently tested and I'm okay, but did you want me to use a condom? I brought some if you want me to."

"No," Sherlock answered immediately. "No, I don't want one. I've been tested, too. After I—" he cut himself off, then realized John would push it if he didn't elaborate. "...after I came back," he finished quietly. Then in a louder voice, he said, "I don't want anything between us. Is that... all right?"

John remained where he was, his eyes shifting along the floor at Sherlock's pause, but he shook it off once Sherlock further continued, abandoning his bag and bringing himself back up to the detective.

"Of course it's all right," he said, kissing Sherlock's lips briefly before running his hands over his shoulders, massaging them. "You're already pretty relaxed," John said, pleased with himself, "but you might start tensing up a bit when I start. I need you to tell me if you need me to slow down, or if it's too much okay?" He slowly kissed along Sherlock's spine, his hands trailing down Sherlock's sides, nails lightly scratching. He laid one last kiss on the small of Sherlock's back before spreading Sherlock's legs and trailing his fingertips over the backs of his thighs. When he reached his arse, he grasped the flesh apart, exposing his hole. He stared for a few seconds, rubbing his thumb over the puckered, heated skin, completely fixated with the way it clenched and unclenched around him. John gasped, leaning down to lay a kiss there. His mind was racing; as soon as Sherlock was ready, he'd be inside him, and an intense shudder ran through him at the thought. He brought himself up and reached for the lube bottle, popping the cap and coating his fingers liberally after dropping some onto the cleft of Sherlock's arse. John's eyes followed the lubricant as it slowly, sensuously ran down his skin, and after coming back to himself he put the bottle down, keeping it nearby.

"Remember," he said with a cough, "I'll go slow, but please Sherlock, please let me know if I'm hurting you." He finally positioned two fingers at Sherlock's entrance, his brows furrowed in deep concentration, and he began circling his fingertips around his hole, the strokes starting off gentle and getting firmer as the surrounding skin began to loosen.

Sherlock felt like he was floating, utterly blissed out. He felt the burn of arousal once again, but it wasn't overshadowed with urgency this time around. He could indulge in every movement John made, and could catalogue it properly and permanently in his mind palace. His arse felt bare and exposed under John's attentions, clenching and shooting delicious sensations into every one of his nerve endings. Then John pressed a kiss there, and Sherlock went completely breathless. Sherlock had never considered that particular type of oral sex before, and certainly hadn't thought John would want to try it. It was unhygienic, surely? But _god_ , it felt like nothing else they'd done in the previous half hour or so. Neither did the cool sensation of lubrication sliding down the cleft of his arse, or the indescribable feeling of John's fingers slickly moving over his most sensitive areas. He rumbled pleasantly, his voice catching.

"You could never... Ah _Christ_... You couldn't hurt me, John," he murmured, reaching back to grasp John's hand soothingly. "I trust you."

John smiled warmly at that, proudly, and he carried on with a bit more confidence. "Okay, here he go," he whispered after giving Sherlock time to brace himself again, and he began to penetrate with just the fingertip of his middle finger. And Christ, the pressure from that alone was fucking _fantastic_. He very, very slowly eased himself in, watching little by little as his finger was swallowed, the incredibly tight heat taunting him, so much so that he was sure he'd go insane. It felt this good and he only had half a finger in; what the hell would it feel like to bottom out and be completely surrounded by Sherlock's inner walls? "Christ," he groaned, flushed, and he carefully watched and listened out for any sign of discomfort from Sherlock.

"Nnn..." Sherlock groaned between his teeth. The sensation was... odd. Not unpleasant, just strange. He observed his reaction to the finger clinically, making sure that nothing felt uncomfortable. Suddenly it hit him that John was _inside of him_. A part of John was stretching him open intimately, and soon it would be more. More, more, _more_.

"More," he gasped. John complied, sliding his finger further in. Sherlock was certain that nothing could ever feel this good. Nothing could ever compare to this— "Fuck!" he cried suddenly, his entire body seizing up as John brushed something inside him. Prostate, his mind provided wildly. He gasped, "Oh John, oh hell," as he ground his forehead into the bed and thrust back onto John's finger, seeking more of that strange pleasure.

John was so focused on the task at hand that he nearly jumped when Sherlock suddenly cried out and clamped down hard around him. He came to the same conclusion that Sherlock did, the man's eagerness and thrusting back a dead giveaway; he had found Sherlock's prostate, and he grinned wickedly, seeking out the same spot. John had no words for how much he was enjoying having Sherlock like this, and he made sure to lightly brush against the gland occasionally; give Sherlock as much pleasure as possible without over-sensitizing him. He withdrew his finger, only keeping the tip inside, and when he moved again, a second lubricated finger had started to join the first. He went as slow as possible, knowing it would be more of a stretch, and when he finally had both inside he paused, giving Sherlock time to adjust. After awhile he began to move them in a circular pattern, rubbing against his prostate to keep him in this state then spreading them apart to work Sherlock open some more. 

"More, John. Please. It's fine. I'm fine," Sherlock rambled thoughtlessly. He felt gloriously open, as though in his body were inviting John in the way his mind and heart were. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. He needed...

"Now, John. Now now now _please_." His cock was already fully hard again, rubbed tortuously against the sheets with every press to his prostate. Sherlock reached back again to grip John's thigh tightly, most likely leaving bruises. He barely even noticed. " _Please_ ," he begged. He had begged twice now. How ironic.

John had always thought himself to be a patient man, but with the way Sherlock was writhing and _begging_  and grabbing at him and being so fucking responsive to absolutely _everything_ , he was riding on a very thin line, and it finally snapped. His last thought on the subject was that he only hoped Sherlock was stretched enough, but the man was incredibly aroused and if John was careful and well-lubricated, they should be fine.

Well as fine as you can be diving into scorching, tight heat.

John was trembling hard, having been aroused for quite some time now, and he finally withdrew his fingers, prompting a whine from Sherlock. "Turn around, on your back," he said hoarsely, "I want to see you." 

Sherlock nearly kicked John in his hurry to roll onto his back, no grace in the movement whatsoever. He felt curiously empty the moment John had withdrawn, through logically he knew he had gone without the feel of John inside him for the whole of his life. How he had done so living with the brilliant, wonderful man, he'd never know. After flopping back down on his back, his arse tingling fantastically, Sherlock lifted his arms to pull John down for a gloriously wild kiss. But a short one. He released John only to keep from distracting him from the task at hand. Because suddenly, it seemed as though Sherlock had never wanted anything more in his life than for John Watson to be inside him. "Go on, love," he encouraged hoarsely, unable to resist stroking through John's hair fervently. He spread his legs to wrap loosely around John's waist.

John growled low and feral in his throat the second Sherlock wrapped those gorgeous long legs around him. One hand frantically moved around the bed in search of the lube, and once found he quickly dispensed some onto his hand and tossed it aside. He grasped his cock and quickly set to slathering it up, hand firmly pumping, his head falling back at the movement. Once satisfied, he brought himself back and lined himself up with Sherlock's entrance, teasingly rubbing himself against it and smearing more lube to the area. He _groaned_ , the hole seeming to radiate heat against the head of his cock, and with one last look to Sherlock for confirmation, he pushed, his hand guiding the very tip in.

John's reaction was immediate; a sharp exhale leaving him, his eyebrows furrowing and eyes clamping tightly shut. He huffed a sharp laugh with what little air he had left, overwhelmed with the feel of Sherlock squeezing down around him. They should have been doing this earlier, his mind screamed. They should have been doing this much earlier.

He eased in until the plump head of his erection was in, then forced himself to still for Sherlock's sake, his body shaking terribly in effort as he dropped down to elbows and buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

"Oh fuck, fuck, f-," he cried, desperately wanting to move; seek out more of that delicious heat. But the only rational part left in his mind right now told him he was bigger than his fingers and needed to wait until he got the clear from his boyfriend. Boyfriend? John huffed again into Sherlock's skin. Even the rational part of him wasn't being so rational. He wished, God how he wished. He finally lifted his head off Sherlock's shoulder and opened his eyes, blinking several times as he gauged Sherlock's reaction.

John's cock was certainly bigger than his fingers. Sherlock gritted his teeth against the unfamiliar pain, trying to bear through it and remember that it would pass and turn into something much more pleasant. He had been through far worse pain before, and he _wanted_  this. Wanted John to claim him, push him. And John was being so careful with him, it made the pain abate slightly. Sherlock tightened his hands around John's shoulders and willed his stubborn body to just r _elax_. To help distract himself, Sherlock focused on John. John, who was trembling, holding himself back from hurting Sherlock. Clearly it was overwhelmingly pleasurable for his... John. And when John swore and buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck, it pushed him in that much further, brushing his cock against Sherlock's prostate.

Suddenly, all the pain was overshadowed by overwhelming, excruciatingly violent pleasure coursing from the inside of his body to the tips of his toes. "John, fuck!" Sherlock cried sharply. He arched up immediately, pushing against John's cock in an effort to coax John into moving, to bloody _do that again_.

John jolted the second Sherlock cried out and arched into him, the man's body pulling his pulsating cock a little further into him. It was almost comical; the way his wide eyes darted down to where they were both connected, then to Sherlock's face, and back down again. When he looked back up to Sherlock, it was with understanding, and he swallowed any further words from Sherlock by deeply taking his lips, withdrawing only slightly to push back in and brush that same spot again.

He moaned into Sherlock's mouth, languidly circling his hips, bringing himself in deeper each time. Within a few minutes, and a few well-angled pushes, he had finally bottomed out, the base of his cock flush against Sherlock's impossibly inviting arse. He paused for a long moment here, hovering over Sherlock on his shaky arms, sweat falling down the sides of his face as he moved to pepper Sherlock's with kisses, emotion flooding through him. The magnitude of this moment hit him, completely encompassed him and John barely registered he was crying; tears collecting at the corners of his eyes as he whispered into Sherlock's hair, into his ear, into any bit of skin he could reach. Words of love, of devotion and worship cascaded from him; words that held every truth of anything he'd ever felt towards this brilliant man. He returned to his movement while doing so, his hips gently rocking once more and aiming deep within Sherlock, John wanting nothing more than to just drown in him.

Sherlock was startled out of his pleasure haze at the sight of John crying above him. John, who was whispering such beautiful things to him. Who loved him, no matter what happened later. Sherlock raised his sweat-slicked palms up to John's face, wiping gently at the tears collecting in his eyes.

"John," he whispered soothingly, feeling his burning arousal cool into something softer, less frantic but no less desperate. He gentled his pushes against John's cock as he returned the small kisses. "John, this is perfect. Absolutely perfect. You are brilliant, gorgeous." His voice hitched as John thrust a bit sharply. Sherlock nipped at his throat. "I love you," kiss, "I always have," kiss, " _Mine_ ," he murmured. His eyes widened as he realized the last thing he'd just said. John wasn't his, was he? Not really, not for sure. "Sorry," he amended in a small voice. "I just meant... I didn't mean to..." John hit his prostate dead on and his words died as he cried out softly against John's throat.

"Always," John breathed as he firmly nuzzled Sherlock's temple, ignoring the man's verbal correction, " _always_  yours..." He felt inebriated; hazy and drunk by this level of passion, and he thrust himself sharper into Sherlock, intent on giving him everything, making him feel as good as possible. He ran one hand down a thigh wrapped around him, reaching to grasp at Sherlock's backside, pulling a cheek to him and opening up Sherlock a bit more. He groaned, being a bit more forceful as he snapped his hips forward, instinct starting to take over. Sherlock was already his, he believed, in mind and soul; circumstance being the only thing keeping them from being truly together right now. He wanted to claim him, show him exactly who had him, pleasure him in a way no one else had, make him scream. John felt incredibly possessive with each cry and moan from Sherlock, and it reiterated the notion; he was Sherlock's, Sherlock was his. 

Sherlock could feel his orgasm rising again, intensifying with every thrust of John's cock inside of him. He clutched at John's strong, tense shoulders and kissed at whatever skin he could reach. He bit and sucked, uncaring of any marks he happened to leave behind. He _wanted_  to leave marks. Wanted everyone to know that Sherlock the freak, the sociopath, the friendless, the unlovable had found someone who wanted him, loved him, _craved_ him. And not just anyone, but this _indescribable_ man. The man who was kind enough to befriend Sherlock Holmes, and crazy enough to do it, too. The man who had mourned Sherlock for _years_. This soldier, doctor. Loved him. Everything else was just details.

He squeezed tightly around John's cock, whose pounding had grown erratic as he neared his own climax. Sherlock was lost in the experience, finally fully connected to John in a way that, no matter what happened, he could never, _ever_  delete. He gasped against John's throat and moved to press his lips against John's panting ones. "John, John, I love you, it's...I'm...oh... _ah_!" Sherlock cried out so loudly, he would worry later about the neighbours hearing him. His whole body tensed against John's, and with a last deep kiss, Sherlock was coming violently between them, jerking within the circle of John's arms and feeling overwhelmed as this climax swept over him, easily twice as intense as the last one.

Sherlock's body clamped down hard around him as he hit his peak, and in that moment, John was lost. It was truly an out-of-body experience; everything seeming to shut down as he determinedly opened his eyes to watch Sherlock who was rapidly gasping, the sound so sharp, his senses in shock. John would never find anything more beautiful. He felt frozen, the image heavily imprinting in his mind, Sherlock's lips barely brushing against his as electricity continued to surge hard through him. John couldn't bring himself to remove his eyes from Sherlock's face, not even wanting to blink perchance he miss a second of it. He snaked his hand between them to grasp Sherlock's cock, milking his orgasm, extending it, just watching, captivated.

When Sherlock finally fell back, residual tremors still tearing through him, John's resolve cracked; he knew what he needed, and he needed it immediately. He hurriedly thrust his hips against Sherlock, who's grip around him had slackened, his body spent. John finally sought out his own release, knowing that this was much more than just an orgasm. This was marking. This was strengthening, this was bonding and cementing. John pierced him twice more, grabbing Sherlock's hips in a bruising hold to held aid himself in burying as deep as he could go. It was paralyzing, the feel of his warm seed heavily coating Sherlock's inner walls as he released into him. He buried his face once more, Sherlock the only thing keeping him grounded. He cried into Sherlock's neck, a stream of both his name and obscenities flying from his mouth, mildly muffled by heated skin. He was trembling even after he stopped coming, remaining exactly where he was, not quite ready to pull out yet. Sherlock's body felt like a safe haven. He finally moved to look into Sherlock's eyes, intimately touching their foreheads together, panting warm breath in each other's space as they came down.

"I love you," he whispered, brushing back Sherlock's sweat-damp curls from his face before kissing him sweetly, deeply. "I love you..."

Sherlock just lay there for a moment, gasping desperately and utterly transfixed by John's climax. He needed a moment to just absorb it all, to memorize it, save it in his mind palace. He didn't quite know how to store it, though. Should he frame it, John's face when he was uninhibited and thoroughly out of control, taking what he needed to reach his own peak of pleasure after reducing Sherlock to a boneless puddle of sweat and moans? Should he save the glorious sounds John made as he spilled into his body on a CD to play on loop in his mind forever and ever? It all seemed perfect. Glorious. Once he recovered enough to speak, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John to keep him from doing something stupid like moving. Sherlock grinned shyly into John's shoulder.

"God, I can't feel my limbs," he murmured to himself in amazement. Not so strange, logically. He _had_ come twice. "Is...is it always like that?" he asked breathlessly. "Sex", he clarified, "Is it always that..." He searched for the most fitting descriptor. "...Intense?"

"No," John laughed, laying a soft kiss to Sherlock's temple. "No, not always. Also depends on who you're with. This though...Jesus Christ, I've never felt anything so perfect. You're perfect." He hummed, nuzzling his face against Sherlock's. "Mmm, I'm warning you now, I'm a cuddler. So plan on being smothered with affection for at least the next half hour," he laughed, genuine but lazy, endorphins turning his mind and body to mush. 

"Fine with me," Sherlock replied in a soft voice, carding his fingers through John's sweaty hair. "I think I'm a bit overdue on a bit of cuddling," he giggled, echoing John's statement from earlier. He fell silent, enjoying the feeling of their chests pushing together with every breath, not to mention the feeling of John's cock still nestled inside him, far more than he probably should. Unfortunately, his mind turned to more unpleasant topics as the silence went on. Dammit, _why_  couldn't he just enjoy this? Why did he have to start wondering what was going to happen in the next few days? He should be relaxing, grateful to have John in this way while he could. Sherlock chastised himself for ruining his glorious afterglow, and willed his body to stop tensing. _Just relax,_  he told himself.

John could feel Sherlock tense under him, and if he was completely honest with himself, he had an idea why, because the same unwanted thoughts were running through his own mind. He suddenly felt sick with guilt, wanting to say something, say _anything_  to calm Sherlock, to reassure him and ease his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to. What could he say? So he just lay there, eyes focused on the wall, the fingertips of one hand slowly tracing mindless patterns into Sherlock's shoulder.

Despite everything he'd been recently told otherwise, he was a terrible person. Because in truth, John had known exactly what he was doing by heading over here. He spoke of the potential of closure for the two of them, playing that just in case, but in all actuality he knew it was bollocks. How could either of them possibly have closure now? After this? After everything that had been said, been done? He _wanted_ this to happen. He wanted to make this impossible for the both of them to say no. But was that fair? Certainly not for Sherlock, who was probably feeling scared and unworthy right now, after being so damn amazing, so fucking _open_ to John, both physically and emotionally, and certainly not fair for Mary and the baby, regardless of where his heart was. John shut his eyes, selfish bastard not even beginning to describe how he felt about himself right now. Monster, more like it.

Sherlock felt John tense above him and cursed himself for getting so worked up. "Hey," he said firmly, coaxing John's worried, sleepy eyes to meet his. "No. Don't do that. I know what you're thinking, and you're utterly wrong." Sherlock swallowed and stroked John's face, smoothing out the worry lines wherever he could. "You are not a bad person for letting this happen. I knew exactly what I was getting into, and you were honest with Mary about how you felt. Really, I'm the one in the wrong here," he admitted, shifting his gaze. "I should have realized you would feel guilty and conflicted after going through with this. Perhaps I shouldn't have let you, but I..." He bit the inside of his cheek and blinked rapidly. "I just... I wanted to know what it was like. With you. I... I wanted us to be connected in a way I couldn't delete later, even if I wanted to. But that was selfish of me, and I'm sorry," he finished, stroking John's face soothingly. "Let's just enjoy this while we can. Then you..." he cleared his throat as it cracked slightly. "Then you can go back to Mary."

John looked solemnly into Sherlock's eyes, calmed by his gentle hands, but remained silent. He didn't argue, both out of exhaustion and the fact that technically Sherlock was right. Tomorrow he'd be returning to Mary. Now as to what was going to happen when he did so, that was still a massive question mark in his head. She was aware of where he was right now and probably knew what, or _whom_  he'd be doing tonight; he sent her a text prior to leaving, telling her he'd be staying with Sherlock, then shut off his phone. He almost wished Mary would throw him out tomorrow, it'd be easier that way. There was just so much to factor here, and he honestly wished he wasn't so morally compromised. He dug his arms under Sherlock's body, pulling him close, his scent heavy and familiar around him. He swallowed, trying to will his mind to stop racing. They still had several hours, he reminded himself, hours they both needed just to themselves. While John didn't think he could force the thoughts from being a present underlying theme tonight, he did feel he could push them aside far enough to focus on what really mattered. Sherlock. Showing Sherlock everything he had to give, showing him how much he was loved. He kept as tight a hold as his loose arms would allow, reveling in being able to feel Sherlock's heart beat so near to his. 

Sherlock watched the play of emotions cross over John's face one-by-one, his heart shattering. After a few moments of silence, in which Sherlock could feel John's heart beating against his own, feel John's breath against his skin, Sherlock trailed his fingers up and down John's neck and whispered, "You're still worrying about it." He swallowed. "You regret this," he observed quietly. "Perhaps this was a mistake. I... I shouldn't have let this happen. God, I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry."

Feeling like an utter idiot, Sherlock began squirming a bit, trying to escape John's gentle hold, accidentally squeezing around John, still inside him. He bit his lip at the feeling, just barely biting back a small moan. "Sorry," he said again in a small voice. His mind began whirring with contingency plans. Surely Mycroft would be aware of the situation, and would scare away all of his dealers, so he'd have to travel further for anything good. It would have the double effect of getting him out of London for a little while. Away from John. Except... _Damn_. He was still the best man, wasn't he? He couldn't just faff off before the wedding. It would be a few more days, but he could handle it. After what he'd just put John through, it was the least he could do.

Sherlock's words pinched a nerve in John and his hurt festered into something else entirely; an angry frustration, only this time it was directed towards Sherlock. How could he possibly think he regretted this? Regretted him? Didn't want him in every sense of the word? Suddenly Sherlock started trying to move away, and no, no, no, this wasn't happening, he had to do something. He cursed, briefly immobilized by Sherlock accidentally clamping down as he shifted, but that helped push John's hostility, and once recovered and before he could even think he was sitting up on Sherlock, thighs holding tight around him, his weight pinning him down. His breath came quicker, the fingers of one hand curling into his palm, in knowing that what he was about to do was both very childish, and very stupid.

"Sherlock Holmes," he growled, his brows sharply furrowed. "For starters you are going to shut up," his index finger sharply pointing for emphasis, "and then we are going to sit here and sort this thing out. _Right now_. I am not fucking moving until we do," he barked, exploiting the fact that they were still connected and desperately hoping it'd work because if Sherlock did in fact tell him to get off, he'd be off in a heartbeat, then would have to frantically think of something else.

Sherlock froze, startled by John's tone. Once he recovered, he attempted to glare back. It wasn't that easy, though. Sherlock felt overwhelmed and confused, so frightened he would say or do the wrong thing and not even knowing what outcome he wanted anymore. He tried desperately not to let his face crumble completely, but he was so tired. Tired of trying to figure out what was right and what was wrong and what he could do to make it all better. His lip began trembling against his will, and he was horrified to feel hot tears welling up and spilling over. He shut his eyes tightly and swallowed, clenching his jaw tightly.

"I don't know what to _do_ ," Sherlock damn near pleaded in a shaky voice. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to do to make this right. And it's _killing_  me, John. I'd almost rather you walked out right now, back to Mary, just so I would _know_." Sherlock was silent for a moment, breathing shallowly through his nose. Then he shot his hand out to squeeze John's tightly. "I'm sorry. That's not... I don't mean that. Not really, I don't think." He bit his lips and looked at John. "I'm glad to have had this. Even if it's all we ever get, I'm grateful to have had this. With you."

John's face fell immediately, his heart feeling like it dropped somewhere down into his stomach. He clapped a hand over his mouth, chest heaving into it, eyes wide and stinging terribly from the sight before him. Sherlock was exhausted, and crying, and overwhelmed, and _terrified_ , and none of this was okay, especially knowing he was the cause. John desperately held onto Sherlock's hand with his free one, frightened that if he let go, it'd be over for them. Wetness began to slip down his own face, and he carefully pulled himself out of Sherlock, a bit of semen running from where he had just been. Still clutching Sherlock's hand for dear life, he flopped onto his back opposite of Sherlock, staring into the ceiling for a long moment before turning his face toward him. He swallowed, choosing his next words very carefully.

"That night at the pool," he quietly started, "when I had a bomb strapped to my chest and we faced Moriarty for the first time...that's when I knew. That's when I knew it. I'm in love with you, Sherlock. Was then, and still am now, tenfold. I want to be with you. I want nothing more. That, we know. I'm also a man who got into a relationship with a woman, impregnated her, and told her it was a mistake, a terrible mistake. Because I will _always_  choose you. That's the way it is Sherlock, and that's the way it's going to be until the day I die. Or the day you want otherwise. If you want me to go, I'll go. And never, _never_  will I blame you for anything. I did this to _you_ , and will never forgive myself for that. But I don't want to think about what's right and what's wrong right now. Everything I've done is wrong in regards to this. I went about everything in the wrong way. That right and wrong...it's what's holding us back. You are the only thing that makes sense to me," he whispered, tears running off the bridge of his nose.

"If I leave now Sherlock, I will never recover. And I'm not saying that to make you feel guilty, it's just a fact. It took me two years after you fell to have one fraction of the life you'd given me, and somehow, when I asked for a miracle, you gave it to me. You brought me back to you, and I'm alive again." He closed his eyes, shakily inhaling. "I don't want to leave you. I don't want to leave after tonight. I want to stay here. I want to stay wherever you are, and solve crimes with you, and make love to you, and wake up next to you on the days that you do manage to sleep, everyday for the rest of my life. That is what I want. That is all I've always wanted. And I promise you, I won't resent you for letting go, everything else will work out. This mess with Mary, all of it. You and me, like it's always been, like it's supposed to be. If you can live with that, everything else will be okay. I promise, I love you, I-" He squeezed Sherlock's hand, begging, sentiment pouring from his eyes, voice, entire being.

Sherlock was silent for a long, tense stretch of minutes. Letting go of John's hand, he rolled over to lay his head on John's chest, wrapping his arm around him tightly. "Don't cry, John. Please. I'm sorry," Sherlock started quietly. "I shouldn't have said all that. It wasn't fair to you. I wasn't thinking, and I didn't mean to hurt you. Forgive me."

He traced mindless patterns on John's chest and abdomen with gentle fingertips as he considered his words. "I realised at the pool too," he began slowly. "Seeing you wrapped in those bombs and...and targeted because of your association with me, I just...I had never been so scared in my entire life. Not for the life of another person, and barely even for my own." He fell silent again. "Despite how everything turned out, I've never resented you or Mary for your relationship. In fact, I was...grateful. To know that you had someone there for you when I couldn't be. For that, I am eternally in Mary's debt. You never knew how I felt about you, so there was no reason for you not to find a relationship elsewhere. And when you impregnated Mary, you were still unaware of my feelings. So I don't blame you for that, either. Stop blaming yourself, because this is _not your fault_." Sherlock pressed a kiss to his collarbone.

"I love you too, John. No matter what, I need you to know that that will never, _ever_  change." He propped himself onto his elbow, face hovering over John's, and wiped at the tear tracks. "I'm not a good man, John. I am selfish, and it is taking everything in me not to take hold of you and not let go. But if this is truly what you want, a life with me, then I am all too willing to give it to you. It isn't unheard of for two parents to raise a child without being in a romantic relationship. Mycroft could easily take care of the legalities. I just...want you to be certain that you aren't guilted or forced into anything. I don't want you to feel obligated, either way you decide." Sherlock rolled over further to lay on top of John and pressed a hesitant kiss to his lips.

"You are not a monster," he whispered fiercely. Then he smiled softly. "As I said, I'm glad to have had this with you, no matter what happens. I consider myself incredibly lucky. Not everyone is fortunate enough to share their first time with their best friend, whom they love desperately." He kissed him again. "So stop doing this to yourself. Please. I'm sorry for what I said. It was thoughtless and...I'm sorry."

John looked at Sherlock above him, eyes drifting all over his beautifully crafted face, finally settling on his lips. That gentle smile was contagious, and when John glanced back up into his eyes, there was one gracing his face too. Sherlock had placated him once again, held him through it regardless of the fact that it had been an emotional nightmare for the both of them. He said exactly what John so desperately needed to hear.

He slowly brushed the fingers of one hand along Sherlock's temple, running them through the dark, loose curls framing his face. He applied gentle pressure, bringing Sherlock down as he leant forward, their lips meeting somewhere in the middle. The kiss was slow, deep, John trying to relay his gratitude, relay everything into it. For the first time in the last several intense minutes, he finally felt he could _breathe_ , and this was _with_  his lips connected to Sherlock. He broke off the kiss, holding Sherlock's eyes with his own, his hands cradling his face.

"I think the both of us need to stop with the sorries for now," he said quietly. "I don't want to hear that word anymore tonight. Well," he corrected, "just once more, I'm an arse and I'm truly sorry for yelling at you. But then no more sorries, alright?" He gave a small smile, his thumb moving down to sweep along Sherlock's lips, his breathing slowly evening out.

"Sherlock," he said, licking his lips as his words formulated in his mind, "this is what I'm going to do. I'm staying with you. Because I _want_  to. Now I will have to leave tomorrow to go to my flat. I have to, both because I have to sit Mary down again, we have a lot to go over. Also because I need to pick up my things; I only brought one change of clothes and I can't be walking around starkers," he huffed lightly, shaking his head. "But then I'm coming back and I'm moving back in." His lips followed his thumb, and he gently kissed along the corners of Sherlock's mouth. He took a deep, relieved breath at finally having an answer for himself, finally being able to shut everything off around him; focus on what _he_  truly wanted. He dropped his head back down to the bed, looking around the room. "Now I guess my only question is if it's okay for me to move in _here_  with you," he said, implying Sherlock's bedroom. 

Sherlock searched John's eyes, determining for certain whether or not this was what John really wanted. Seeing no hesitation in his eyes, Sherlock grinned broadly and leaned back down to kiss John eagerly.

"Yes," he answered happily. "Yes, you can absolutely move in here. I want nothing more." He sobered up a bit and stroked John's hair. "You don't need to apologize for yelling. You're not an arse. I was being self-conscious and stupid, and you were frightened. Don't worry about it." Sherlock kissed at John's throat. "And I wouldn't mind it if you walked around starkers, either," he added with a small lick to the beating pulse point. "But I understand. Do you want me to go with you this time?" He asked quietly. "Perhaps I should speak to Mary as well. Actually," he pulled away from John's throat with a frown, "I'm sorry, I never even asked...How did Mary take it? What did she say? Besides the...obvious," he added wryly.

John thought back to it, trying to remember everything about that draining conversation. "It was hard to read her," he started, brows furrowed in thought. "She didn't seem surprised, but whatever she was feeling, she didn't really let on. I was honest with her, told her everything about you and me, and for the longest time she just stared at me. Now Mary's usually so full of life, so expressive, but this was...odd. She was so cold, so blank. She didn't seem angry until I told her I couldn't go through with the wedding. Then she told me she was pregnant, and that I couldn't leave her like that. That I needed to drop whatever this," he ran his hand down Sherlock's back, "was. That I couldn't be having an affair with my former flatmate, that it'd be a terrible situation for us to raise a child in. She fought me for that damn wedding. But even if she had forced me to keep with the planning for it, there was always the chance I wouldn't show up, so she lost there. We said we would call it off. For now, she said. I had never felt so trapped in my life," John muttered, brushing his lips against Sherlock's shoulder.

"She scared me a bit, she just seemed so different. But I guess that's what happens when you're scared, and knocked up by a man that's in love with someone else." John sighed, shaking his head. "You know, it's incredible that we even _got_  pregnant, I was always so _careful_  and made sure we were always protected. I'd always wanted kids, but with the running around with you chasing after criminals, it didn't seem like the best time to be a dad." He nipped lightly at Sherlock's jaw before continuing. "I'd like for you to come tomorrow. Maybe we can borrow a car from your brother, it'd be easier to transport my things. But I do think I should go in alone to talk to her first. I don't know how it's going to go, especially since she knows I'm here, and I don't want her saying anything to you. If we're able to be civil, I'd also like to discuss the baby, at the very least just preliminary stuff, but I don't think it's fair to her either if you're standing right there in front of her. I just don't know how she's going to feel tomorrow, I guess we'll have to wait and see."

"There was always something about Mary I couldn't quite put my finger on," Sherlock commented absentmindedly, stroking John's chest in contentment. He furrowed his brow, something nagging at him from the back of his mind? Deduction, perhaps? About Mary? He tried to chase the thought, but was soon distracted by John's heartbeat underneath his ear. The thought dissipated like smoke. "Ah well. Probably not important," he murmured, pressing a kiss to John's chest. "I'm sorry she scared you. But I am glad you're letting me come with you. I don't care what she says to me. To be honest, I probably deserve most of it. And I don't want of you going in there alone," he added quietly, hoping John would read his word as simple concern for his well-being. Which was certainly part of it. But the bigger part of him, which Sherlock didn't want to admit, was afraid of John going in and coming back with more bad news. Coming back with another reason to leave. Sherlock was utterly ashamed of this part of his mind, and so he kept his mouth shut.

"You know, it's not that odd that you were able to get Mary pregnant," Sherlock added conversationally. "Condoms alone are generally only about eighty-five percent effective." He was silent for a moment, counting John's heartbeats.

"...I am happy you're having a child, despite everything," he said quietly. "You're going to be an amazing father, no matter what."

"Okay," John mumbled through a loud yawn in response to Sherlock's concern. "You'll come in with me then. And I think I'd be a good father too," he added, a corner of his mouth curling in a small smile. "I just hope Mary feels the same, otherwise things are going to get complicated. Things are already complicated." He blinked a few times, his eyes feeling heavy, his lack of sleep and emotional capacity at its limit. "Christ," he murmured, as he he lazily played with Sherlock's hair, enjoying the texture of the strands beneath his fingers. "I'm exhausted..are you exhausted? I'm exhausted," he said, almost inaudibly as he slowly nodded. 

Sherlock snorted sleepily. "I came twice, John. Quite spectacularly, and within the span of one hour. I could sleep forever." He snuggled into John's neck, wrapping his arms around him tightly. "We'll go over first thing in the morning. The sooner we get it over with, the sooner I can put your things in my drawers and _you_  back in my bed. I have such _ideas_  for you now," he grinned wickedly into his throat. Then he frowned. "Should I move? I feel like I'm crushing you. Or is it more traditional for me to lay next to you? I've never slept with another person in the bed before. I'm not entirely certain what the protocol is," Sherlock admitted.

John closed his eyes, grinning and humming low in his throat, very much liking the sound of that. He wriggled a bit under Sherlock's tight grip, having enjoyed his comforting weight on him, now rolling them over so they were on their sides. "There's no protocol. Just however you're comfortable. C'mere," he murmured, holding his arms out to Sherlock, needing to keep him close. They were an absolute mess, as were the sheets, but John would worry about the washing tomorrow. All he needed right now was the one next to him, and he pulled the covers over them, the warmth of Sherlock's body lulling him into a hazy state of contentment.

Sherlock closed his eyes, fascinated by how much he was looking forward to sleeping for once. There was no way that the promise of being in John's arms for hours had anything to do with that. Of course not. Sherlock curled up tightly into the circle of John's arms and let his heavy eyelids fall shut. "Mm... Love you," he murmured breathily before falling deeply, immediately asleep against John's chest.

John stayed awake for a few more minutes only to watch Sherlock evenly breathe against him. This was something he'd wanted for so long, and God, in this moment, all was right in the world. He glanced over his beautiful face with half-lidded eyes, knowing exhaustion would take him any second now. "Love you," he replied with a small smile, even though he knew Sherlock was long gone and couldn't hear him. He shut his eyes, pulling Sherlock a little closer, their legs intimately intertwined as his mind went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a point in this exchange where I was sitting here literally tearing up, and was just like, "Whoah. This is too intense. I am /feeling/ and it hurts like hell." Crazy awesome how that happens. 
> 
> Something else that was also /so/ interesting for me was the sex bit. I consider myself more of a Toplock guy, although I can definitely see either one occasionally bottoming, especially with Sherlock's emotional vulnerability in s3. So I've got a preference, but I had ZERO problem with my John topping, and the level of enjoyment in it for me was so ridiculously high that I was pleasantly surprised. Her Sherlock's just so good, the writing was really good, and hah, it just opened my eyes a bit. I dig it. XD


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was quiet in the cab on the way to John and Mary's (well, just Mary's now, he supposed) flat, his abdomen writhing with guilt. He didn't regret a single thing he and John had done, but he felt horrible for what Mary was surely going through. He was stealing away her future, and he didn't even dislike her. Sherlock squeezed John's hand to help ease his mind a bit. He had woken up slowly that morning, luxuriously. The soreness in his muscles and arse confused him at first, as did his nudity and the warm (also nude) body spooning him from behind. He tensed at first before a flood of memories shot through him and he relaxed again against John's chest.

He had stroked John's arm softly, reveling in the idea that he could have this every morning. He could assume that John would be in his bed, would hold him like this in the mornings just because he enjoyed the feel of Sherlock's body as much as Sherlock enjoyed his. They could have that for forever...provided Sherlock didn't do anything to screw it all up.

"Sherlock, I think you're more nervous than I am. Calm down," John said, brushing his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. He was a bit anxious as well, the tremor in his hand a telltale sign. He could do danger, he lived that, _breathed_  that, couldn't survive without the adrenaline. But emotions, they were a whole other animal entirely. He always felt things so strongly but was truly terrible at expressing himself, and he hated doing so. He sighed, knowing he was currently headed into the lion's den; uncomfortable at being unsure of how Mary would be reacting to it all.

He looked over to Sherlock and gave a small grin, his thought trail suddenly busted. He adjusted the scarf around Sherlock's neck, fixing it to cover the large, excellent bruise he had left last night. John thoroughly enjoyed tracing out the marks they had left on each other when they woke, Sherlock's neck and hips the primary targets, while John's chest held several of his own. He enjoyed that far more than he should have, and felt pretty smug up until they got into the cab and nerves began to settle in. 

Sooner than John would have liked, they had pulled up to his old flat, and he looked to the window before glancing back at Sherlock. "Are you sure you want to go in?" he asked once more.

Sherlock shivered a bit as John shifted his scarf, the fabric dragging deliciously across his bruised skin. There were quite a few bruises he was trying to ignore, not wanting to be too pleased at the moment. The delightful twinge in his arse wasn't helping with that resolution. He took a deep breath and looked over at John.

"It's fine. There's no way I can go through this without nerves, so I might as well get it over with. I'm sure. And..." He swallowed, firmly reminding himself that he trusted John, that John wouldn't suddenly leave him for Mary again. "If you'd like to have a moment alone with her, I... I wouldn't mind. It's all fine. I trust you." He squeezed John's hand once more. "It's your decision."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand, tightly holding onto it even as they got out of the cab. He leaned up to lay a long kiss on Sherlock's cheek after paying the cabbie, feeling incredibly affectionate after last night. They'd finally had sex, and John now felt the physical pull stronger than ever; he had been giving kisses and caresses to Sherlock all morning. He couldn't even bring himself to care that they were out in public, the newspapers would catch on sooner or later. Christ, the press would have a field day.

"No, I want you with me," he said, knowing technically that may not have been the wisest decision, but Sherlock's presence eased him and he didn't feel he could be separated from him right now anyway. He finally released Sherlock's hand before they walked into the building, not wanting to give Mary any further humiliation by risking a neighbor seeing. When John had turned on his phone that morning, he had not received a reply to the text he had sent her yesterday, although he doubted she hadn't seen it. He sent her another this morning, saying he would be coming by to talk, hoping to give her time to prepare. He felt like such a bastard, but he'd made his choice last night and was trying to be over with the guilt. All that was left to do was talk. He paused once they reached the door to the flat, unsure as to whether or not he should knock or just open the door himself; technically it was still his flat too and he had keys. In the end, he knocked three times, exhaling deep and looking at Sherlock for strength until the door opened. It was Mary. Of course it was Mary, his mind dumbly provided, who else would it be?

"Hi," he finally got out after freezing for a minute. "Can we come in?" He asked, unsteadily. 

"Oh so you brought him too did you," she said, her nose crinkling up as she smiled, the false expression not meeting her eyes. "Lovely," she said, the statement laced with sarcasm. "Come on." She turned away from the door, leaving them to follow. John looked to Sherlock, swallowing to clear his throat, just trying to remember that this would be the hardest part but once over, he'd be able to go home. Home.

He stepped in, Sherlock following behind and they followed Mary into the kitchen. John held out his arm, stopping Sherlock a couple paces from the table, non-verbally asking him to keep a bit of distance. John sighed and sat down, his gaze to the floor, while Mary sat tall opposite of him. John inwardly cringed, wondering why the hell he always felt so weak in front of Mary. Probably because he was such a broken man when they met. She was hired as a nurse at the clinic a few months before Sherlock's return, over a year after he fell, and John found himself desperately clinging onto her kindness and interest in him, his heart still shattered, even after all that time. He had wanted so badly to be 'fixed', but he never quite got there; only feeling whole again once Sherlock returned, despite whatever dark, depressive shadows still lingered.

He finally turned in his seat to face her, seeing that her gaze had been locked on Sherlock, her head slightly tilted and expression calculating. John didn't like that, didn't like her cold demeanor which felt so _unlike_ her, and he quickly spoke to get the focus away from Sherlock. "Mary, I've been honest with you this entire time, you've known everything. I'm sorry, I'm sorry for having put you in this situation, I'm _so_  sorry for that, but Mary, had I known Sherlock was alive, I-"

The words second choice rang in his mind, and John shut himself up, not wanting to add insult to injury. He ran a hand over his face, sighing as he continued. "I love him Mary. I'm sorry it turned out this way, but I'm leaving today. I'm here to pack my things."

Mary slowly nodded, directing her attention back to Sherlock. "So this is what you do, then," she spoke after a long moment. "You rope him back in. I mean, why not, John lets himself," she said with an exaggerated shrug, her eyes piercing into Sherlock's. "Tell me this dear, what happens the next time you decide to disappear on him, hmm? The next time you find something else more interesting?" 

"That's not what this is, Mary," Sherlock nearly snapped, hackles rising at her implications. He forced himself to calm down. Mary didn't deserve his hostility. Sherlock took a deep breath and focused. A twitch of her fingers caught his attention, and suddenly his mind was whirring at the speed of light. Clearly the twitch was a defensive instinct, obvious in context. But he'd...He'd seen that particular type of twitch before. John's hand did the same thing when he was in a situation where he wished he had his gun on hand and didn't. But why would Mary have that same instinct? If she had been using John's gun, it wouldn't have been for long enough that she would pick up such a strong habitual reaction. So clearly she was used to being in defensive situations. As a nurse, though? No, Mary had not been in the army, Sherlock knew the signs of that. He thought back to their previous encounters. Odd things had stuck out to him at the time and they were suddenly all coming together.

_Able to recognize a skip code on sight_...

_Amazingly retentive memories_...

_No family to speak of and no friends before five years ago_...

Sherlock's eyes went wide as he realized, _finally_ , what his mind had been trying to tell him about Mary all along. "John," he managed in a surprisingly steady voice, not looking away from Mary as his deductions hit him directly in the gut. "I think Mary and I should have a moment alone, if you don't mind. There are... a few things we need to discuss."

John turned his head to look up incredulously at Sherlock, immensely confused. His gaze fell and his hand clenched but still, he trusted Sherlock, whatever his intentions were, and after a long pause he finally stood from the chair. "Yeah...yeah okay." He nervously glanced back to Mary, who was eyeing Sherlock curiously, before stepping out of the room and heading to start on packing his things. 

Sherlock smiled reassuringly at John as he left. The minute he was gone, he turned to Mary, the smile sliding off his face. "You haven't been completely honest with us, have you?" He stepped closer, eyes flicking over Mary's form, taking in all the clues he'd missed in his earlier sentiment.

"Former intelligence agent, am I right? Retired approximately five years ago, stolen identity, looking to settle down. What now, would the news of John leaving you a week before your wedding for the famous hat detective draw too much attention? Especially when you're pregnant? Is that why you were so insistent on the wedding?" Sherlock stopped to take a deep breath. "I'm sorry. That was... uncalled for. My apologies."

"I'm almost disappointed. For all John's annoying talk of how _good_ you are, you were really rather slow. Might be losing your touch a bit," she said, hands neatly folded in her lap. "But you're right. I have a past and I am wanting to settle, and once I married John, nobody would bat an eye. I'd be Mary Watson for good, and a baby would only cement that. Unsuspicious, flying under the radar. I'm rather good at covering my tracks.

But here you are, trying to take it all from me, and right now, my hands are tied. I can't do a thing about it. But boy how I want to, Sherlock, how I want to. I do love him you know. And I think we can both agree that John's too good for either one of us. He's kind and he's loyal, but he's naive; he'll believe anything you tell him. "So," she threatened, voice eerily calm but loaded with intent, "you don't tell him. If John found out the things that I've done he would never speak to me again, and I refuse to let that happen. Sherlock, understand, I refuse. We're just going to let this play out. Maybe he'll want you for the rest of his life, and maybe he'll be running back to me within a week. You're never going to be able to give him this you know," she said, a taunting hand trailing down her barely visible stomach. "Maybe that'll catch up with him. I'm hoping anyway." 

"John's not a complete idiot. He knows perfectly well what he's getting into, entering into a relationship with me," Sherlock replied calmly, tamping down the small flare of self-consciousness. "I know he's too good for me. The difference between you and I is that I have never lied to John, not about this, not about who I am."

He stepped up directly in front of Mary. "You and John will raise the baby with no complications. Mycroft can handle the legalities. I'll put you in contact with him and he can arrange for your protection. A severance plan, if you will. I truly am sorry," he added softly. "John and I had never been in a relationship before this. I had no idea he felt this way, but I'm not going to let him go now. I'm sorry, but I can't. I _won't_ , if being with me makes him happy. Believe me, I tried to tell him to stay with you, I did. But it was hurting him and it was hurting me, and it would have hurt you and the child in the long run."

Sherlock swallowed. "I think you should tell John the truth. Don't go on letting him think he's a monster when you have been so dishonest about your path. It's wrong and you know it."

Mary finally dropped her challenging gaze at Sherlock's boldness, a mere second of guilt passing over her features. She recovered quickly, swallowing and bringing her eyes back up to him. "I'll tell him only if and when I deem it right, and it'll be my place to tell," she said quietly. There was a silent pause as she rose from the table, pulling her robe tightly around her. "Now, you best go help him with his things. Man's got more jumpers than he knows to do with.." she muttered as she made her way past Sherlock and disappeared elsewhere in the flat. 

Sherlock exhaled sharply, sagging a bit as acute relief washed through him. The hardest part–at least for him–was over. He walked into the bedroom and stopped to lean against the doorway, watching silently as John packed his small amount of things into a large duffel bag. Mary was right, even if it didn't feel like it at the moment. It wasn't his place to tell. Besides, he didn't want to be the bearer of any bad news to this man. This wonderful man who was throwing away a whole future, just to be with him. The thought eased the guilty knot in Sherlock's chest. He walked up behind John, wrapping his arms around John's waist and burying his face in his warm neck. He pressed a small kiss to John's skin, ignoring the fact that he was hindering John from doing any more packing.

"I spoke to her," he murmured. "If you'd like to have a word with her in private now, I can stay in here and keep packing. I don't think you have to worry about her too much. She seems fairly reasonable," Sherlock commented wryly. "But I can also come with you. It's your decision."

John's arms went over Sherlock's and he gave a small relieved sigh at having him back. He thought his words over but knew he had to finish the conversation with Mary on his own. "I'll be alright. Most everything else I've got is already on the bed, so once that's packed we should be good to go." He gently pulled himself from Sherlock's arms, breathing deep and standing straight as he left the room, seeking out Mary, wanting this to be over and done with.

John didn't return for several minutes, but when he did it was with his brows furrowed and a baffled smile. "What exactly did you tell her?" he asked, pointing down the hall. "That was surprisingly...okay. I think we're going to be okay." He went up to Sherlock and placed his hands on his shoulders, shaking his head, then leaned up to kiss him in gratitude before heading over to the bedside table and pulling his gun out of the drawer. He slipped it in the back waistband of his jeans, throwing his extra clips inside the duffel bag then zipped it up, giving a final look around the room. He had basically eliminated any trace of himself from it, and that small twinge of guilt crept up again. John quickly shut it down, firmly taking Sherlock's hand and the bag as they left the room. This had never been his home. Not truly. 

Sherlock shrugged mysteriously. "What can I say, John? I can be quite... persuasive." He quirked an eyebrow at John as they headed out the front door. Sherlock hailed a cab quickly, wanting desperately to get John out of this flat, out of these blasted _suburbs_. John didn't belong here. John belonged among danger. Among the chaos and clutter of 221B, with the skull and the smiley and Mrs. Hudson fussing about. They climbed into a cab and drove for all of thirty seconds before Sherlock laid a warm hand on top of John's thigh and began pressing soft kisses to the side of his throat. "Thank you," he whispered against his skin.

"Hmm, for what?" John asked, exposing his neck to Sherlock's attention, completely choosing to ignore the fact that there was someone else in the cab with them. 

"Just... Thank you." Sherlock pulled away from John's neck and squeezed his thigh. "I realize how difficult this was for you. I understand how much you've given up for me. And I just... wanted you to know how much I appreciate it." Sherlock swallowed and pressed a kiss to John's lips. "I love you."

"I love you too," John whispered, laying a small kiss on Sherlock's nose. "And I don't see it that way, because really Sherlock, I've gained so much more. I've got you and I've got my life back." He smiled warmly, happily sighing now that the worst was over, then suddenly chuckled. "Oh my God, Mrs. Hudson. I can only imagine...and we also need to figure out what we're doing with that spare bedroom. Because you know what I'm thinking," John said with a grin, "I'm thinking we can stick a fridge up there so you can get your damn body parts out of the one in the bloodykitchen." He laughed heartily, burying his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock chuckled, then bit his lip in thought. "Or..." he began hesitatingly, "Perhaps we could... make it a nursery?" Sherlock's face burned, wondering if this was even his place. But he had been seriously thinking about it.

"I mean... you know. A room. For the baby? There's going to be a child in your life now, which means it's going to be in my life, too. And it's a part of you, so I'm bound to love it. We're going to need to coordinate a bit, even if they aren't around as often as if you and Mary were living together. I'm likely to be rubbish with children, but I'm certainly willing to to try. Not _willing_ , that sounds bad. I _want_  to try. I want to do what I can to help, if you want me to. I don't want to interfere, of course, but if there's anything I can do..." Sherlock tapered off his witless babbling. "Sorry, I just...I was thinking that might be a good way to use the room," he mumbled, flushing red.

John slowly raised his face from Sherlock's shoulder, blankly staring at him for a good 2.5 seconds. The next thing he knew he had grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's coat and sharply pulled him close, crushing their lips together. When he finally disconnected, after who knows how long, he was completely winded and absolutely beaming. "You'd be okay with that? Because Sherlock, I-I'd really, really like that." 

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion, the effect dulled quite a bit by his panting from the sudden kiss. "Of course I'd be all right with that," he replied, still clutching the sleeves of John's jumper. "Why wouldn't I be? How else did you expect to have partial care of the child without having a place for them to stay? We can keep the bedroom upstairs, away from noises in the evening when I'm experimenting. Or when we're louder other times," he added slyly. "Anyway, perhaps we can invest in a separate fridge with a lock, as well as a safe in which to keep my equipment. And your gun, that'll have to be put away somewhere. As I said, I'm likely to be rubbish at all this, but I'm surprisingly fascinated by the idea of another person who shares your DNA. A someone who is essentially half _you_." Sherlock grinned, barely even attempting to keep the excitement off his face. "I really think it could work, John. I mean... If that's something you would want, of course."

"Of course I would want that. Of course I would." John said quietly, unable to describe how much he loved seeing Sherlock smile, and how genuinely happy he felt right now. "I know you don't think it sometimes Sherlock," he murmured, his hand sliding under Sherlock's coat to rest along his waist, his thumb gently brushing up and down his shirt, "but you are a good man. And you'll do just fine. I trust you." He kissed Sherlock's cheek, eyes gazing up into his. "I'll be taking Mary for an ultrasound sometime this week, she's about eight weeks along, so that gives us plenty of time to baby-proof the flat." John huffed a small breath, smiling to himself. "Right now Sherlock, I swear, I feel like I have it all...hey!" he said, suddenly perking up, "you know what, in light of everything, I think we should go celebrate. Tonight. A proper date. We can go to dinner and maybe take a walk around, it'd be nice. If you want to of course, and if we're not called out on any cases."

"A date?" Sherlock asked with a smile. "That would be... I've never been on a date before."

The cab pulled up to 221B and he paid, throwing open the door and pulling John out onto the sidewalk with him. "What exactly does a date entail?" Sherlock asked, nosing cheekily up John's throat. He took his friend's hands and walked them to the front door, lightly pinning John against it as his tongue replaced his nose on the skin of John's neck.

The guttural noise John made wasn't decipherable whatsoever, and it was heavily embarrassing. "Sherlock," he finally managed through gritted teeth as he looked out, "you can't just pin me against the front of a building on a busy street...people might talk..." He grinned while he said it, knowing what he really meant was this is hot as f- "A date, remember, it's where two people who like each other go out and have fun," he said, smiling with nostalgia at the statement. "And if we just happen to have sex afterwards..." He brought up his hands and palms, shrugging as he innocently looked upwards. 

"You're right," Sherlock sighed theatrically, pulling away from the bruise he had been sucking into the skin of John's throat. "I suppose people will talk if I keep this up." Without letting John compose himself, Sherlock pulled away, straightened his scarf, and walked inside. Leaving John leaning against the doorframe as he made his way upstairs. "Perhaps I should begin planning our date now. Make everything _perfect_ ," he called back teasingly, attempting to mask his nerves with bravado.

A date. He'd never been on one outside a case, and he'd never much cared about making it special. Making it count. He stood in the centre of the sitting room, licking his lips as he tried to formulate an idea for a date. A date with John. He grinned like an idiot, grateful John couldn't see him at the moment.

John gaped ahead, completely unable to compute Sherlock's very sudden disappearance. He turned his head to look through the open door, then back out to the street. He gave a curt, awkward nod to some passerby, well aware he was flushed and sporting the beginnings of an erection. Great. The second they passed he threw himself into the building, shutting the door behind him, then turning and glaring upstairs. John grinned wickedly, pulling his bag to him as he quickly made his way upstairs to join Sherlock. Oh, tonight was going to be _fun_. 

* * *

Sherlock had spent the rest of that afternoon locked in his room with John's laptop, having shut himself away without a word the moment he'd heard John's footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock hated to admit not being anything less than masterful at anything he set his mind to, but even he had to admit that his practical experience in dating and relationships was severely lacking. And the websites he was consulting weren't much help at all.

'Dinner and cinema'?

'Chocolate and flowers'?

' _Small talk_ '?

Sherlock slammed the laptop shut in disgust. He wanted to do something special for this occasion. Something that would please John, especially after the hell they'd gone through to get to this point. John deserved it. Hell, they _both_  deserved it. But no inspiration struck, and Sherlock was nearly ready to throw the damned laptop across the room. 

John gave a small groan, eyes heavy as he slowly blinked to focus them. He took in his surroundings, Sherlock's chair being one of the first things to come into view, and bit by bit he remembered he had been reading in his own to pass the time and must have dozed off. He pressed his head further back against his chair, being still and just blinking for a moment before his eyebrows furrowed and he brought up his wrist to check the time. Hours had passed since he first sat down, Sherlock having disappeared into his bedroom and John not wanting to disturb him; he could always unpack later. Had he been in there the whole time? It certainly wasn't abnormal of him, but John figured he should go check it out anyway. He rubbed at his face with his hand, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees before getting up and stretching out his arms. He rolled his neck a few times, brushing his hand along the back of it as he groggily made to Sher... _their_  bedroom. John lightly tapped his knuckles against the door.

"Sherlock," he quietly called. "Oi, you alive?" 

Sherlock opened the door miserably. "I was trying to plan a date," he mumbled, flushing deeply. "But I couldn't think of anything, and the internet..." At this, he shot a murderous glare at the abandoned laptop, "...is being deliberately obtuse." He turned back to John with a sigh of frustration. "At this point, we may as well be going to Angelo's like we always do. Then watch a film, if I take the advice of that insipid machine. Dull."

John looked at him sympathetically, a warm, sleepy smile curling at the corner of his mouth. "You went on the internet...for dating advice." He softly snorted, reaching for Sherlock's hand. "Okay. Look," he said, bringing the hand and holding it to his chest, "you know me. Okay, it's not going to matter what we're doing, I'm fine as long as I get to do it with you. Whether we're running around like a pair of bloody maniacs, or just having a quiet night, it doesn't matter Sherlock, and it's not like we set this up far in advance. It doesn't have to be a big deal."

Sherlock finally calmed down enough to notice how gorgeously rumpled John looked. Soft and sleepy and warm. He slid the hand on John's chest up to the back of his neck, pulling him in for a lazy kiss. Lazy was a strange way of describing it, Sherlock thought. It certainly had an undercurrent of the desperation he always felt in John's presence, but it was slower. Less frantic. Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock pulled John back until his friend was pinning him between the doorframe and his warm chest. Just as the wonderfully blissful snog began heading somewhere, Sherlock's phone interrupted from his pocket, sharp and shrill. Bugger, he thought angrily. He ignored it.

John continued to kiss him, his arms loosely caging Sherlock against the wall as their lips began to press a bit harder. He broke off however as the sound continued, a small sigh escaping him as he pressed his forehead against Sherlock's. "You should probably get that," he said, opening his heavy eyes to look at him. 

Sherlock heaved a world-weary sigh and pulled his mobile out of his pocket.

"What?" He snapped in lieu of a greeting, wrapping an arm around John to keep him from escaping. It was Lestrade. He listened for a moment, brow furrowed in annoyance. Suddenly, his eyes brightened. "Oh. Interesting," he breathed before looking at John. He snapped out of it. "No, Lestrade. My apologies, but I am accounted for this evening. Send me the case files and I'll get back to you in the morning." After acquiring Lestrade's reluctant agreement, he snapped the phone shut and turned his attention back to the man in his arms. "It's nothing. Just a case," he elaborated breezily, trying to keep the spark of interest out of his voice. "Barely a four."

"Take it," John said without hesitation, his own eyes flashing a bit. "Sherlock, you haven't had one in days. C'mon, I think we both need it," he said, briefly kissing under Sherlock's jaw. "Although I must say, never imagined I'd see the day when Mr. Married-to-my-Work would turn down a perfectly good case in favor of _me_. For God's sake don't do that, but hell, I'm flattered," he said with a smug smile on his face. "Now go on."

"...Seriously?" He asked, hesitating slightly. Then he beamed, grabbing John's face and kissing it all over. His stomach flipped happily with every press of lips. "Are you sure? Because we don't have to, I promise. You wanted a date, and I was looking forward to it, and I wasn't going to take it, but the murderer left a broken pocket watch around the victim's neck, and..."

Sherlock pulled away from John's throat, which he had been eagerly ravishing, and looked directly into his eyes. "Are you sure? Really?"

Apart from hearing his actual deductions, this bit was always one of his favorites, watching Sherlock brilliantly light up at the prospect of a potentially interesting case. Sometimes his excitement was very ill-timed, and John made sure to scold him on those occasions when it was a bit not good, but even then he couldn't deny how much he loved seeing him like this. He only raised an eyebrow at him, visually telling him he already knew the answer to his question.

"Yes," he quickly breathed at Sherlock's further hesitation, lightly rolling his eyes. "Yes, I'm sure. For us it's practically a date anyway." He watched Sherlock's mouth for a second, mentally tracing, before he leant forward and teasingly brushed his lips against him. "Solve it," he whispered into him, never quite applying enough pressure for a kiss before stepping back to let Sherlock off the doorframe. 

Sherlock's eyes darkened considerably, and for a moment, he nearly just said fuck the case. He wanted to manhandle John into his room and do unspeakable things to him. But the pocket watch... Sherlock blinked a few times and took a deep breath, collecting himself as best he could. Once he felt he could walk without wobbling horribly, he passed John to get his coat and scarf. But before he did, he pressed up behind John and kissed the nape of his neck. "I love you," he breathed heavily, relishing in John's resultant shiver. Oh, Sherlock couldn't _wait_  to solve the case and get John home. They were both always so delightfully charged after a good case, jittery and high off of adrenaline. Sherlock was fascinated to see how this would play out in the context of this new kind of relationship. But first...

"The game is on, John!" he called over his shoulder as he flew down the stairs to hail them a cab.

John grinned, the familiar words already working their magic on him. He suddenly felt wide awake as he dashed to grab his jacket and gun from the sitting room, dressing himself as he ran downstairs quickly to catch up to Sherlock. The man was already waiting inside a cab and John got in immediately, settling next to him. "Alright," John said as they sped off. "So murder victim, pocket watch, anything else we know?"

* * *

"Is there something going on with you two?" Greg asked as they stood against a wall, Sherlock flapping around the murder victim as they watched from a few feet away. "Not saying I'm not pleased to have him in on this one, but he seemed a bit agitated when I called. More so than usual," he added with a chuckle. "And now he seems a bit... Distracted?" He glanced over at Sherlock, whose eyes were indeed flickering over in Johns direction every so often. Greg cleared his throat. "So did I interrupt a row, or...?"

"Mm?" John hummed absently as he stood with his arms crossed, eyes intently following Sherlock as he worked, meeting his every time he looked over. It took a long while for Greg's words to settle in and when they finally did, he sharply coughed, resulting in him choking on his own saliva.

"Not...a row..." he managed in between coughs, mentally cursing himself and trying to avoid making too much of a bloody scene. "Fine, he's fine, Sherlock...fine, we're fine...all of it...fine," he repeated, unable to look Greg in the eye once his body finally calmed down. He remembered with pointed clarity _exactly_ what they had nearly gotten up to, how their light kisses had only just begun to heat and had there not been a phone call, they were likely to be bedding each other right now. No way in hell he'd be telling Greg that, although he felt his diverted gaze and quickly reddening face and ears were making him too damn readable, and he immediately sought to redirect focus. "Sherlock!" he called, the word urgently rushing from his lips. "What, uh, what do you think?" 

Sherlock was utterly frustrated. The body was clearly arranged in a way to draw attention to it. Attention from both the police department and the media. The pocket watch was actually the murder weapon, tight enough around the victim's throat that it was cutting into the skin. To top it off, the pocket watch was engraved with the phrase "auxilium aliis auxilium se". Which, as a quick internet search confirmed, translated roughly into "Those who help others help themselves". So clearly this was an act of revenge. This whole case was _fascinating_ , but Sherlock couldn't help his gaze and his mind wandering back to John. Christ, was he always going to be this distracted from now on?

He shook his mind clear of that thought and concentrated on the body. City boy, going by the state of his clothes and hair. Nearly forty, divorced, addicted to cocaine (Sherlock sighed internally), and often enlisted the company of prostitutes. Banker, possibly. More likely a lawyer. "Those who help others help themselves"... Something about the watch nagged at Sherlock, until he realised it was manufactured in a small family run clock repair shop that had closed down about a month ago to make way for some shopping centre or other. "Oh!" Sherlock cried suddenly. Obvious! He glanced at the engraving once more and realised it didn't quite match the handwriting of the owner of the shop, though it was quite close. Relative then, possibly. He had known the owner, helped him out on a small case a few years back. Decent, if somewhat sentimental old man. Sherlock remembered suddenly hearing news that he had passed away shortly after the shop had been torn down. Financial and emotional stress, most likely. So now a relative was taking revenge on the lawyers who had closed the deal and had essentially, in his mind, killed his... Father? Grandfather? No matter. Sherlock glanced wildly around the room for more clues when his eyes fell upon one of the younger recruits in the force, in charge of photographing the scene. Unlike the other police officers, who were leaning away from Sherlock with disgusted faces, this particular man was almost leaning forward, eyes glued to the body with what Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to call maniacal glee. Also, Sherlock noticed the watch on his wrist and recognised it as one from the same shop. So, so obvious. Being in charge of the camera, the officer had access to the finished photographs. It would be the easiest thing to do to pocket one. A sort of trophy, kept in honour of his family member's passing. Unfortunately, the man noticed Sherlock watching him with interest. Obviously not stupid enough to wait around to be outed in a room full of coppers, he bolted.

"No!" Sherlock shouted, jumping up and dashing out the door. "Come on, John!" he called as he ran after the suspect.

John's body jolted at Sherlock's yell and he wordlessly sprinted after him, his ears drowning out the orders that were being barked to the force as he left the room. Whatever conclusion Sherlock had arrived at he hadn't been informed of, but as always, he trusted him completely, rushing after him and following his lead. He had to push himself to catch up, his stride being much shorter than Sherlock's, and a short-lived relief washed over him once he was finally right on his heels.

_Keep him close._

They kept chase, adrenaline electrically surging throughout his body, reaching even the very tips of his fingers and toes. The sound of their feet slapping the pavement and the cars on the nearby streets rang in his ears, and his heart pumped rapidly. God, this is what they lived for, as far as he was concerned. They were _f_ _lying_ ; racing through the dark alleyways the officer had escaped to. John relied on Sherlock's extensive knowledge of London's layout, trusting he would find a way for them to corner him sooner or later. Bugger was fast.

Sherlock panted as he ran after the suspect, gauging his route based on the man's age and knowledge of London. He seemed clever enough to realize that Sherlock would know where in London he lived (the mud on his shoes was obvious a mile away), and seemed to be heading towards the half-demolished clock shop. Sentimental, but also a practical place to stash a getaway bag should he be caught ahead of schedule, as further construction had been postponed for poor weather.

"The old clock shop near the Chinese place," Sherlock called to John, beginning to run in a different direction. "I'll come around the other side and we'll cut him off. I'll meet you there. Do try not to shoot unless necessary," he added as he sped off down an adjacent alley.

John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock had already sped off, so with a growl he threw himself down his instructed path. He ran as fast as his legs would allow, the wind pulling hard at him, his cheeks stinging from his speed. The suspect was still visible a ways ahead of him, and he hoped he'd be able to gain on him before they met up with Sherlock. Otherwise that'd be leaving him wide open and faced with the officer for those few seconds, and that wasn't okay, especially since John had to avoid shooting. He knew that Sherlock was completely capable of fending for himself, but even geniuses could miscalculate, and John just wasn't going to risk that happening without him there. The restaurant name for a Chinese place came into his field of view and his eyes darted around for something identifiable as the clock shop. But a few of the surrounding buildings were also in the process of being torn down, and it could be any one of them. He trusted that the suspect would be his compass however, and sure enough, he watched him head towards one in particular; parts of the front walls demolished, gaping holes set in the building's foundation. This was it, he realized, drawing his gun from his waistband just in case, his gaze now split, rapidly switching from the officer to the streets in search of Sherlock's location.

Sherlock ran up the alley behind the clock shop and hopped the fence, just in time to see the suspect duck into the crumbling foundation. John couldn't be too far behind— Ah! There he was. Sherlock could just make out his silhouetted form nearby. Sherlock strolled into the shop and flipped an open switch, illuminating the officer frantically stuffing a few last-minute things into his duffel bag.

"It's over, Richards," Sherlock told him calmly. "You were quite clever with your methods, but I'm afraid it's time to surrender." Sherlock watched as John crept in behind Richards, gun at the ready. The officer, however, was not yet qualified to carry one, and was essentially unarmed. Sherlock glanced pointedly at John's weapon and shook his head minutely, signalling for him to holster it for the time being. Unfortunately, Richards noticed the small glance and whipped around to John standing there. Realising his less than ideal predicament, the man made a final desperate grasp at freedom. He lunged towards Sherlock, obviously intending to throw an ill-advised punch. Sherlock ducked quickly to avoid it, heart leaping a bit in fear as he realised the man had a pocketknife in his trousers. "John, knife!" Sherlock warned before the man had a chance to surprise either of them with it.

With the introduction of the knife, John knew the sooner they got him down the better it would be for all involved. There still technically wasn't too much of a threat; Richards was sloppy and outnumbered, with his only weapon currently resting in his pocket. But John erred on the side of caution regardless, rushing at the man's turned back and knocking him to the ground at Sherlock's shout. They hit the floor hard, John scrambling to pin him, Richards flailing and trying to reach for his knife. John got there first, hurriedly digging into the man's pocket and tossing the pocketknife to the far side of the room. He tightly straddled Richards, pulling at his arms until he got them held behind his back, then leant down, applying his weight to help keep him from rolling over. "They better bloody get here," he panted, looking up to Sherlock. "I am not staying like this..." 

With perfect timing Sherlock would have never expected from London's finest, lights began flashing outside the clock shop. Sherlock had texted them as he sprinted to the shop. But only half his focus was on the commotion outside. The other half was frozen staring at John, who had so efficiently disarmed and pinned a man almost twice his size. The speed with which all the blood in Sherlock's body pooled in his groin made him dizzy. The cops charged in and handcuffed Richards, leaving John free to stand up and stretch his strained muscles. Before he even realized he was moving, Sherlock was standing in front of John, heart pounding violently in his ears. "John," he said hoarsely. "We should go."

John was looking to his left, rolling out his bad shoulder as Richards was taken from the crumbling building. "Greg will want to-" The words halted in his throat the very second he turned around and his eyes met Sherlock's. He froze, understanding immediately, and Christ, what in the hell were they still doing here? Lestrade approached the two just then, and all John gave was a sharp, terse promise that Sherlock would text him the specifics, and he turned and strutted past his flatmate, his gaze flashing to him as he did so. God, he felt so _good_ ; a byproduct of the addictive adrenaline coursing through and satiating him and Sherlock clearly finding him sexy as hell right now. He left towards the nearest street with purpose, chest out and shoulders back as Sherlock followed behind.

Sherlock grinned lasciviously and followed quickly, hailing a cab the moment they reached the main road. Once they were inside the car, the adrenaline settled in his bloodstream, making him feel hot and jittery. His fingertips tingled with the desire to reach touch John's skin. Which was maddeningly covered by thick layers. God, he'd never felt so turned on in his life, without actually having been touched. He'd certainly felt... stirrings. Before, when witnessing John taking down armed suspects. But now, knowing precisely how his muscles bunched and flexed when he moved, hearing him pant in exertion, remembering him panting similarly in another situation, knowing that John wanted him just as badly... It was exhilarating. He stretched his hand over to rest on John's thigh, biting his lip as the warm tingles ran up his arm and rushed sharply into his hardening erection. He squeezed John's leg lightly.

John's gaze was dark and absolutely predatory; he hadn't taken his eyes off Sherlock since they got in the cab. The hand on his thigh was warm and applying a slight pressure and John nearly growled from the feeling. Without so much as a cautionary glance to the front of the cab, he leant over, biting down on the lobe of Sherlock's ear, one hand reaching across to firmly rub back and forth along his clothed stomach. He exhaled heavily around the skin in his mouth and Jesus, he was having urges to _really_  touch Sherlock right here in this bloody cab.

Oh the fucking waiting game. How many hours had they been on edge today? Pulling himself back was an effort, and he slyly ran his hand down and over the thickening lump in Sherlock's trousers, before disconnecting himself entirely. His mouth curled before he silently turned to the window, seeking out any familiar scenery, using it to gauge how long it would be until they reached their destination. 

_Christ_. Sherlock whimpered at the sudden contact, his body arching into all of John's touches. His ear throbbed from the rough treatment and he had just enough self-control not to thrust mindlessly into John's warm palm. He did however toss his head back sharply, breathing coming out more shallowly.

"John," he gasped in a whisper. Suddenly the contract was gone. Sherlock nearly sobbed in frustration, just barely holding back. He glanced desperately out the window, swearing under his breath as he realised they still had nearly had four blocks before they returned home. He shuffled as far away from John on the seat as he possibly could, tucking his coat around his now obviously stiff cock. He glared over at the doctor, not quite as sharply as he would have had he not been sporting flushed cheeks or dilated pupils. He'd never realised how _mean_  John could be.

He could see Sherlock glaring at him in his peripheral, and John lightly bit at his thumb as he smugly chuckled, the low sound rumbling in his throat. He kept most of his attention to the window, not trusting himself to fully look at Sherlock again, not until they were out of the cab anyway. It was just too tempting to crawl on his lap and attack him right there and then; if the driver wasn't in the picture he surely would have done so already. A silence stretched out inside the vehicle, the circulating air charged even with Sherlock having moved as far away from him as possible. John began to perspire slightly, particularly under his collar, and he shifted uncomfortably, his own arousal causing his body to respond. The moisture prickling against his adrenalized, sensitive skin was too much and yet not enough, he felt far too hot, and it was with great relief when the cab finally came to a stop. He paid quickly, giving ample time for them to leave the vehicle and for it to fade down the street, before he curled his fingers into Sherlock's belt loops and pulled him along with him as he walked backwards to the door. 

Sherlock fumbled behind John with the doorknob, stumbling the both of them inside and slamming John against the foyer wall. He immediately pressed flush against John before running his tongue up his neck, groaning deeply as he licked up the beads of sweat that had been dripping as John tried to hold himself back in the cab. Hold himself back from _ravaging_  him. Sherlock ground his hips firmly against John's. It felt _delicious_ , the answering hardness he could feel in John's trousers. It was odd, how different it felt this time. There was no sadness, nothing bittersweet. Nothing hesitant. It wasn't slow and tender. It was... almost fun. It just felt _good_. Sherlock sucked on John's earlobe, copying the man's movement from earlier. It had felt amazing.

" _John_ ," he moaned hoarsely, between deep sucking kisses across his jaw and down his throat. "You... With that suspect... Nearly _twice_  your size, and you just... _Fuck_ , John..." He began fumbling with John's belt buckle.

"Mmm, you really liked that, didn't you..." John grinned, his head pressed hard against the wall, Sherlock's hot mouth and tongue working so damn _good_  at his neck. His hands wrapped around Sherlock to grab at his arse, pushing his thrusting hips harder into him. "Perhaps I should do that to _you_ ," he growled, his eyes opening to flick down at Sherlock's deft fingers on his belt. "Pin you down...have my way with you. Make you _beg_..." 

"Yes..." Sherlock moaned, dragging out the 's' as he lost track of his fingers, bucking once more at the bolt of lust that shot through his abdomen. He flexed his hips underneath John's firm grasp. " _God_ , yes. You looked fucking _fantastic_  tackling him, Christ." Sherlock pressed a hard kiss to John's mouth and slid down onto his knees to pay more specific attention to John's belt buckle. "Seems you're the only one who could make me beg, John," he added with a smirk and a quirked eyebrow. He finally got the buckle open and zip down and licked heavily up the fabric of John's pants.

John hissed sharply, his eyes clamping shut, face turned to the ceiling. When he was able to reopen them, he directed his focus back down to Sherlock; gorgeous, genius Sherlock Holmes, on his fucking knees in expensive trousers, for _him_. Lapping and mouthing at his fucking cock through his pants, tongue flat and heavy against the fabric, thoroughly dampening it. John moved his hand to weave it into Sherlock's hair, tugging, as he slowly but firmly rocked his hips against those perfect lips. The noises Sherlock was making combined with his own groans and heavy breathing were turning him on like mad. His cock was solid, throbbing against Sherlock, and he laughed, _laughed_ in absolute bliss.

"So good...so fucking good Sherlock..." he praised. 

"Go on, John," Sherlock rumbled low in his chest, his lips brushing against John's covered groin as he spoke. He reached both hands around to grip John's arse, rocking him forward. He glanced up, _feeling_ his eyes darken as he watched John laugh in pleasure. "Let's see how you have your way with me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so impressed with the case/deduction sequence she came up with. I would have been like, "Errr...bad guy...weapon...someone deaded...HELP ME" 
> 
> Haha, bet you can't deduce what's going down next chapter. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

_"Go on, John," Sherlock rumbled low in his chest, his lips brushing against John's covered groin as he spoke. He reached both hands around to grip John's arse, rocking him forward. He glanced up, feeling his eyes darken as he watched John laugh in pleasure. "Let's see how you have your way with me."_

A small noise from the vicinity of Mrs. Hudson's flat made him freeze. He bit his lips to keep from bursting out in laughter. "Perhaps we ought to get up to the flat first, yes?"

John stood against the wall panting hard, his eyes half lidded as the nearby sound ceased the movement of his hips. "Yeah," he thickly swallowed. "Christ, if she walks in and we send her into cardiac arrest, I'll never forgive myself..." He huffed a small laugh and helped Sherlock up off floor, kissing him hard in appreciation, arching against him. "Come on," he finally said, zipping his trousers for the time being with some difficulty, then taking Sherlock's hand. He was practically giggling as he led them up the stairs, but his demeanor began to shift the second they were in their flat and the door was locked behind them.

They were back in their own little world, and John shuddered violently with anticipation. His eyes were dark and clouded over as he circled behind Sherlock, reaching around him and pulling his scarf loose. He slid it off, letting it sink to the floor. That gorgeous bruise was visible, and he groaned, overcome with desire to mark Sherlock _all over._  Had he always been this much of a biter? This possessive? Christ. His hands smoothed down Sherlock's shoulders, the thick fabric of his Belstaff coarsely rubbing under his fingers, and he growled behind the detective.

"Coat. Off. _Now_." 

Under any other circumstance, it would have embarrassed Sherlock how quickly he obeyed. He shoved his coat off his arms and let it fall to the ground carelessly. God, John sounded _delicious_. He'd never had the pleasure of witnessing this side of his friend before, but it was truly stunning. Sherlock had barely even been touched and he was already halfway there. He was grateful for the lack of coat though, grimacing slightly as cool air hit his sweaty suit after removal. He stood still.

"What else, John?" Sherlock asked breathlessly, his voice low enough to barely register on the scale, his body practically vibrating with arousal and residual adrenaline from the case. "Tell me what you want."

"Oh I want lots of things," John said matter-of-factly, dark eyes slowly roaming over Sherlock's broad back. "But right now I want your jacket and shirt off, and then I want you up against the wall. That's an _order_ , Sherlock," he said quietly, jaw clenching. 

He stood straight behind the man, unable to process just what this was doing to him. Never in his life had he brought this side of him into sex: the captain side, the rank-pulling side that almost died when he was shot, sent home from war, and lost his purpose. Sherlock had seen it resurface a few times during case work when necessary, but never like this, never directed to him. The things that Sherlock was unknowingly opening him up to were overwhelming. And the fact that Sherlock was okay with this, eagerly complying just made it all that much sweeter. Christ, he was in love with this man. 

After whimpering in a way that was utterly involuntary, Sherlock removed his shirt slowly, savouring each button. Once he reached the waistband of his trousers, he untucked the fabric and slid it and the jacket off of his shoulders. Sparks ran up his spine from the awareness of John watching him, waiting for him to follow his orders. Sherlock had never realised he'd enjoy being told what to do, but it was surprisingly erotic. He enjoyed giving up his control in this to John, whose skill and experience he had to admit far exceeded his own. Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock stood up straight and walked over to the wall. Unsure of precisely how John wanted him positioned, he pressed his forearms to the wall and pushed his body flush against it. The cool wallpaper did nothing to lessen his flushed skin. "God, John," he breathed out heavily. "You're... Jesus. You sound incredible."

John gave a small, hidden smile at the praise, even as his cocked twitched in his jeans. Perfect; he was honestly perfect. Not wanting to get too carried away by sentimentality right now though, he let his eyes drift down to the small of Sherlock's exposed back, refocusing on his arousal. He leisurely licked his lips then finally stepped forward, placing both of his thumbs in that dip and spreading them out sensually as he whispered between his sharp shoulder blades. "Good." He inhaled, losing himself in the scent of Sherlock's skin as he began to lay hot, open-mouthed kisses all along the pale canvas. John continued for several minutes, absolutely addicted to the sound of Sherlock's breathy exhales, his hands solidly squeezing his hips before eventually moving around to his belt, licking at the base of his neck as he slowly worked the buckle.

"It really doesn't bother you, does it?" Sherlock asked, partly just for something to say instead of panting against a wall like a mindless idiot. Also because it had been weighing on his mind a bit. "The fact that I'm a man. That I have a cock and no breasts. It doesn't bother you." He licked his lips and rocked into John's hand on his belt buckle with a low cry. "Oh _Christ_ , John. I need you to touch me now. _Now_. Please."

John rubbed his face against Sherlock's shoulder, slipping the belt from the belt loops and dropping it to the floor. "No," he hoarsely whispered. "It doesn't bother me. I think it's beautiful. _You're_  beautiful. With you it...it doesn't matter." He gave a small kiss to his skin, quieting for a moment as he contemplated. "Don't know what exactly that makes me, but..." His shoulders eventually rose in a shrug, and reached up to kiss under Sherlock's jaw, his hand undoing the man's trousers before slipping his hand under the waistband of his pants and cupping his warm cock.

"It... _Ohh fuck_... It makes you utterly fucking sexy, that's what," Sherlock replied in what he hoped was a coy, teasing voice. In reality, he knew it was probably closer to a husky, stuttering mess. He ground his hips into John's hand, fists clenched against the wall. John was everywhere, surrounding him, and Sherlock had never felt so dizzy from physical urges coursing through his veins. Before he had even thought the thought, Sherlock's hand was over John's on his cock, pressing it down more firmly. The choked moan he made as a result came from the tips of his toes, a warmth spreading throughout his entire body.

"I... ah...!" He began, now thrusting gently against their combined grip. "I sincerely hope... you're planning... to fuck me... against this wall," he managed between pants and groans with every thrust of his hips.

"Oh, I plan on it," John groaned, firmly thrusting his clothed erection against Sherlock's backside, trapping him between sensations. He listened to their mixed breathing, his cock leaking and painfully hard in his jeans.

How? How, bloody _how_  was it possible for one person to be this erotic?

" _Shit_ ," he cursed sharply, a lone thought suddenly breaking through his clouded haze. "We're going to need lube. I fucking swear, we are getting a bottle to stash for every bloody room in this flat," he growled, stopping his hips. "Well, except the baby's room," he added with a small huff, shaking his head before realizing how truly horrible a situation they were in. Last thing he wanted to do in the universe was break away from Sherlock right now, but with the knowledge of how badly he wanted to ram into him, there was no way he could do so without hurting him if he wasn't properly prepared. "Alright, so you are going to _stay_ ," he snarled, squeezing down on the heated flesh in his hand. "When I get back you better be fully naked, then I want you back like this. If you're not, I will make you stay absolutely still on my cock for the next half hour. Do you understand?" 

Sherlock nearly whimpered, only holding back enough to nod frantically. The cool rush of air as John hurried to the bedroom cleared his head a bit. Once he could trust his limbs, Sherlock pushed off the wall and attacked his trousers and pants. He peeled them off his warm, slightly sweaty legs with absolutely no grace whatsoever. He could hear John's footsteps coming back and toed off his shoes and socks frantically. Once they were all finally removed and kicked to the far side of the room, Sherlock resumed his position on the wall, one forearm braced against it as his other hand dipped down to brush against his insistent arousal. His cock jumped under his light touch.

"Mmm..." He exhaled in a low voice. He was so hard already, Sherlock was nearly afraid of when John finally fucked him. But not really. God, it was going to be _incredible_. He could already feel his arsehole clenching in anticipation, the sense memory of John inside him the night before utterly overwhelming.

John had nearly torn apart the bedroom looking for that small bottle. He knew he had thrown the sheets in the wash that morning and desperately prayed that he wouldn't have to go digging through the laundry to find it. Not now. Taking a chance he threw himself to the ground, the bottle just lying there like a bloody _bastard_  under the bed. He grabbed it and nearly sprinted back, incredibly wound up by the ordeal and on the verge of losing it. That's when Sherlock came back into view and his entire being halted to a stop.

Every function he was in control of shut down; his urgency shifting to blank stares. He had to keep reminding himself that this was _real_ ; that this wasn't all some perverse trick of the mind that would haunt him the next morning when he woke up to Mary. Woke up to a crooked existence. He swallowed and cautiously stepped forward, his previous demeanor waning for a moment as he molded himself to Sherlock's body and closed his eyes, just _feeling_  for a needed second. Real. Very real. A relieved sigh escaped him; he vaguely wondered if this would ever really sink in. The fingers of one hand rose to tilt Sherlock's chin to the side, and he brought their lips together, smiling up at him when they finally separated. He then buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck, breathing hotly against him, relishing in the shiver that he himself could feel run down the man's spine. With his mind finally calmed, he was left with nothing but his prior desperation, the feeling overtaking him. He removed his jacket and shirt and whimpered, his hands shooting down to his own trousers to release himself. Once unzipped again he pushed his jeans and pants down, his cock springing free as both items of clothing slipped down his thighs. 

" _Oh God..._ " he groaned, rubbing himself into the cleft of Sherlock's arse, pulsating against him. There was a lightheadedness now, and he shook his head, focusing himself, taking the lube bottle he had been tightly holding onto through all of this and popping the cap, squirting a liberal amount onto his fingers. His body was moving of its own accord, undulating against Sherlock, his lips dragging along the base of his neck in intoxication. He used his legs to kick Sherlock's further apart, shifting himself to give him easier access to Sherlock's entrance. His fingers rushed there, seeking out the heated, puckered skin, a lubricated tip circling only twice before he suddenly pushed past the rings of muscle and sharply thrust it in up to the second knuckle. John bit down hard on Sherlock's shoulder as he was met with that glorious heat once more, Sherlock crying out and clamping down hard around him, and he breathed heavily through his nose as he pushed his finger in further and continually curved it inside him, rubbing, seeking.

Sherlock squirmed against the wall, biting his lips against the abortive moans that threatened to escape as John's fingers unceremoniously shoved up his arse. This wasn't the careful preparation of the night before. This was rough and heated, just the right side of painful. It was John _f_ _ucking_  him with slick fingers. They probed deeper and deeper until finally—

" _Ohh f...uck!_ " Sherlock wailed sharply as John's clever fingertips pressed firmly against his prostate. Soon, he was shoving backwards into his friend's hand, into the hard cock rubbing against the skin of his arse. He reached down to grip his own erection, giving it a few firm strokes. 

"Oh god, oh John,  _yes_ , fuck me,  _please_ , oh please," Sherlock practically choked out in desperate little sobs. "I want you to fuck me, now, please." Sherlock's forehead was pressed roughly against the wall as he continued to fist his throbbing erection.

"You have no idea," John brokenly grunted into Sherlock's jaw, " _no idea_...how badly I want you." He withdrew his fingers without warning, squirting more lube onto that same hand then bringing it to his cock to thoroughly smear it. A deep moan left him as he pumped himself, just watching as Sherlock trembled terribly against him. The texture of his cock was very prominent in this state, and it pleased him greatly to know that Sherlock would be able to feel _everything_ : every vein, every ridge, his cock in its entirety. Using his hand to help position himself, he brought the leaking tip to Sherlock's entrance, groaning as it clenched around him, trying to suck him in. The lube having fulfilled its purpose he tossed the bottle to the ground, pushing himself into Sherlock, and once he was sure he wouldn't slip out his hands grabbed at the wall to brace himself, caging Sherlock in.

Sherlock began panting shamelessly, pushing further onto John's cock in one rough slide. "Oh god, John, yes, feels so fucking good, bloody buggering _fuck_..." he groaned over and over. His low voice was punctuated with sharp little breaths, his cock now leaking copiously.

"Harder, fuck me, fuck me, _please_!" He was desperate to feel John, feel the power he had witnessed at the crime scene. He loved that side of John. John possessed a dark, wonderfully dangerous side to him that he only allowed Sherlock to see. No, that wasn't right. It was a side to him that Sherlock had brought back to life after he had returned from Afghanistan. And _fuck_ if it didn't turn Sherlock on like mad. He wanted John to _take_  him. To split him open, fill a part of Sherlock that he'd never before wanted or believed he'd get. And John seemed more than willing... He was _eager_. He wanted Sherlock just as badly. "You have no idea... how bloody fucking _sexy_  you are... when you throw your weight around. Baskerville was..." He shuddered violently, clenching tightly around John's thick cock. " _Christ_. I love when you get that way. You love the chase, don't you? The adrenaline. The game. The way I do. _God_ , you're absolutely perfect. I love you." Sherlock was speaking to the wall at this point, not entirely aware of what he was saying. All that really mattered was John fucking him so gloriously, making him feel so damn _good_.

John's darkened eyes flashed at Sherlock's words; deep blue irises nearly unrecognizable. His hips snapped aggressively at Sherlock's pleas, the lewd noise mixing with all else that was audible, creating quite the provocative cacophony of sound. It was so _good_  like this, Sherlock relinquishing control and abandoning himself to pleasure . So good, but John wanted more, he wanted...

Without warning, John pulled himself completely out of Sherlock, resulting in a growl from him and a loud whine from the detective. Gripping Sherlock's upper arms hard he forcefully turned him around, slamming him back into the wall, pinning his wrists near his head. He thrust their dripping cocks together, his face possessively rubbing all along Sherlock's cheeks and neck, lips dragging at the skin. Pulling away only enough to make eye contact, he dropped his hands and lifted one of Sherlock's thighs, holding it against his hip as he repositioned himself and sharply thrust back in. John buried himself hard a few times, panting heavily into their shared space, then brought his free hand to the back of Sherlock's other thigh and began to nudge it towards him. His chest pressed against Sherlock as he gave him a firm nod, tightening his grip on his skin. He really, _really_ wanted those gorgeous legs wrapped around him.

Taking the unspoken hint, practically a fucking _demand_ , Sherlock tightened his hooked leg around John's waist and hopped quickly. His other leg went round John's other hip, and his back was slammed against the wall as leverage. The new position was incredible, as was the idea that John was using brute, raw strength to lift him. Not only was he holding all of Sherlock's weight, he was still pounding into him with bruising force. His slick skin slapped against the bottom of Sherlock's thighs, filling the room with obscene smacking noises to mix beautifully with their pants and damn near animalistic moans. Sherlock gripped John's back tightly, leaving red marks from his fingernails. He buried his face in the crook of John's neck and bit down hard in an attempt to tamp down on his quickly rising orgasm. It grew quickly out of his control.

"John," he cried hoarsely. " _John_ , I'm... I'm nearly... Going to..." Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and tried to hold onto this gloriously new, absolutely _filthy_  experience. If he could hold on just... a bit... longer....

Sherlock's warning made John realize that the concept of time had been completely lost to him. How long had they actually been joined? Had it only been a matter of minutes? They were incredibly wound up today, after all. Christ, it was such a contradiction; this rushing to the finish line, because amid the dire need to consummate, there was something in him that longed for this to never end. But there was too much, especially now: gravity helping Sherlock sink onto him each time, his cock able to reach inside that tight heat further than before, brushing consistently along that special bundle of nerves. Sherlock's member trapped in between them, receiving a great deal of friction, both their moans and cries echoing completely unsubdued throughout the flat. It was absolutely _wild_ , and everything John never knew he truly needed to experience. Sherlock was starting to clench uncontrollably around him, he was right at his peak, and John was dangerously close too. In this instance, need would win out; there was no delaying the inevitable, not now, not when they were _there_. He was ready, his shoulder burning gloriously from the deep bite, Sherlock still gasping hotly into his shoulder.  Angling himself slightly, he slammed repeatedly into Sherlock, wanting to give all of him, wanting to tip the both of them over that edge. 

John didn't stop. John didn't stop, or let up, or restrain himself in any way whatsoever. In fact, Sherlock could swear that he was thrusting impossibly _harder_ , _faster_. For Christ's sake, neither of them had even laid a hand on Sherlock's cock. And yet he was coiling tighter and tighter and _tighter_ , his limbs likely uncomfortable around John's body now, but he couldn't seem to care. Too much, it was too much, he couldn't make it last, it was fucking overwhelming, and suddenly his tense, trembling body snapped. His head snapped backwards as his orgasm struck, slamming painfully against the wall. But he didn't register the pain at all through the rush of absolute _pleasure_  that coursed through him.

" _Fuccck!_ " he cried at the top of his lungs, his eyes clenching shut and watering and stinging, his whole body writhing and squeezing as he came so hard, his release nearly reached John's chin.

"Ohhh fuck, John. Oh god. Come, _please_. I need you to come, fucking hell, feels good, feels _amazing_." He clenched rhythmically around John's swelling cock, still rolling his hips as John kept thrusting wildly. He lowered his mouth to John's ear and gasped shakily, "Take what you need, love, go on. I want you to come, I want you to fuck me and _come_ , John." Sherlock had never realised he could speak like this. It had always seemed so vulgar and undignified. For the first time in his life, though, he didn't quite mind being vulgar and undignified.

He couldn't process, couldn't do more than moan and shudder violently at witnessing Sherlock's orgasm and hearing those words breathed into his ear. They became a promise, and he moved as fast as he could, sweat and semen covering the both of them, his limbs shaking terribly as he thrust as fast and deep as possible. When the tension finally broke, he obscenely _screamed_  into Sherlock's neck, his seed filling Sherlock up an incredible amount before his muffled sound turned to overwhelmed cries. John closed his eyes and forced himself to focus on his breathing; he was alarmingly on the verge of hyperventilating. His legs gave out seconds later and he collapsed against Sherlock and the wall, bringing his detective down with him until they were on the floor, John crowding him near the baseboards.

"Oh my God," he whimpered, his forehead resting on Sherlock's shoulder as he shakily panted, trying to get himself under control.

"You have no idea...fuck, Sherlock...that...so fucking _hot_...I..." He sat there for about a minute, an absolute blabbering mess, and just when he thought he had somewhat centered himself he suddenly burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. "Jesus Christ, I don't think I can _move_ , and I'm not the one who's got a cock up my arse...Sherlock, what the fuck are we going to feel like tomorrow?" He laughed so hard in this blissful exhaustion, his entirely body tingling and numb, tears burning at the corners of his eyes, his sharp tremors resonating into Sherlock with each breath.

"Well we can't very well stay _here_  all night," Sherlock chuckled, his huffs of amusement turning into uncontrollable fits of laughter. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like this, freely and deeply. Certainly not after he had faked his death, so often on the run for his life. Not when he had returned, either, to realise he was far too late. There hadn't been much to laugh about without John in the flat. Now, though. Now Sherlock was positively giddy. He was just so indescribably _happy_ , he could stay here for the rest of his life, despite his comment. Here, sticking to John in a disgusting mess of limbs and sweat and semen, he couldn't remember ever being happier. He watched John laugh and laugh and laugh until he couldn't resist kissing him any longer. He grabbed John's face in his hands and pulled him in for a deep kiss, unable to keep from grinning into it. The difference between last night's post-coital atmosphere and tonight's was so drastically different, Sherlock could barely believe it had been less than twenty four hours earlier.

"I love you," he murmured happily, running his lips down John's neck. "That was... Dear god, I'm not entirely sure _what_  that was, but it was utterly brilliant." He grinned and nipped at John's throat playfully. "And it doesn't matter what we feel like tomorrow, because I rather like the idea of not leaving the bed for anything less than a seven." He shifted, the ache in his arse a bit more prominent now that he was coming down from his incredible high. Christ, he might actually need a break before he let John anywhere near his arse again. He fleetingly lamented that fact.

"Mmm, works for me," John said, humming happily. He leant forward on his hands, nudging Sherlock's face up with his own then kissing him sweetly. "I love you too. And really, thank you for that," he said genuinely, nodding, their eyes connected. "Because damn, I feel like I _attacked_ you just now, but my God, you...you're just...yeah."

A deeper redness crept over his already flushed cheeks, further emphasizing the natural post-orgasmic reaction. He turned away with a shy smile, proudly looking down at the mess of their still-joined bodies. "So..." he started, playfully drawing out the syllable, "you can go shower first if you'd like...or...we could...you know...conserve water, save the environment...that sort of thing..." He nodded his head as if in agreement with himself, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows as he brought his gaze back up to Sherlock. "Please," he whined with a chuckle, moving to chastely kiss all along Sherlock's cheek, hoping he could coax the man into a yes. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into John's kisses, soaking up every bit of affection he'd missed out on by pushing people away. He had pushed John so many times, and yet here he stayed. He was never going to leave. "Naturally," he murmured with a small smile, "We must do all we can to preserve our planet's natural resources." Sherlock returned the affection with a quick kiss before attempting untangle them from the floor. He winced at the soreness in his arse, then again as he felt the throbbing on the back of his head. "Ow," he said in surprise, reaching a hand behind to rub the forming bruise.

John grimaced at Sherlock's discomfort, giving a small apology for being the cause. He _was_ sorry after all...but not too sorry. They did just have some pretty incredible sex. "Alright, let me see if I can do this," he mumbled, slowly disconnecting from Sherlock and trying to stand. John whimpered, his muscles completely shot and burning with effort, then snorted at the thought of them getting called on a case like this. Both ridiculously hobbling along. When he was finally able to get himself up, supporting himself a bit on the wall, he removed any remaining clothing, letting it all slide across the floor, forgotten for the time-being. There was such an amusing quality to the both of them being completely nude outside of the bedroom, and he smiled and held out a hand, patiently waiting for Sherlock to take it. "C'mon you," he murmured, intent on helping him up, his body shaking terribly and _longing_  to be under the warm, relaxing spray of the shower.

Sherlock's body and mind rebelled at the idea of moving one bit, but he had to admit that a nice hot shower would feel absolutely heavenly right about now. As would the feel of John's slippery skin under the showerhead stream. So Sherlock took John's hand and let himself be gingerly hoisted upwards. His thighs trembled with the effort and all his muscles felt numb. Suddenly he felt tired, so tired. All he wanted was to shower, dry, and take John to his bed so they could both sleep for days. Sherlock's eyelids drooped as he stumbled along behind John on the way to the loo. God help him, he would sleep again tonight. He couldn't remember the last time he had willingly slept two nights in a row, certainly not in his own bed. But there was no denying that the moment he was under those covers with John, he would be out like a light. They finally made it to the bathroom, and Sherlock leaned heavily against John's back as the latter fiddled with the taps. "M'tired," he slurred, too exhausted to mind the absence of his usual flawless diction. He rubbed his hands up John's biceps from behind has he nuzzled the nape of his friend's—boyfriend's? Lover's?—neck. "Mmm..." He hummed in an impossibly low rumble, blissfully unaware of anything but John and skin and shower and John and naked and John and warm and _John_.

John let his eyes fall shut for a second at the contact, a comfortable smile gracing his face as he checked the water temperature. When it was finally warm enough, steam starting to billow up around the room, he stepped in the tub, slowly pulling Sherlock in with him and closing the curtain around them. He hissed slightly as the warm water rhythmically hit his back, some of his flesh stinging from the marks Sherlock's nails had left behind. Still, the pressure was fantastic against his muscles, and in a matter of seconds he was standing still, letting the water fully cascade over him and Sherlock. Their hair and bodies became drenched, and John gave a small smile, finding Sherlock's straightening curls absolutely adorable. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle, resting his head on his chest and closing his eyes, swaying slightly in content. The atmosphere brought a lulling, easy calm, and John cherished it; his entire being relaxing while in this warm little alcove with Sherlock.

"Feel free to attack me any time you wish," Sherlock murmured suddenly against John's forehead, the smirk evident in his voice. He reached for the body wash they'd taken to sharing and poured a small dollop into his hand. Once he lathered the soap up a bit, Sherlock wrapped his arms back around John and gently kneaded the flesh of his obviously stinging back. "I certainly have no objections. In fact," he added with a lazy smug grin, "I have the strange urge to experiment on a few of these marks to make them last longer." He continued to rub at John's back, hands slickly sliding along the wet skin. However, the quiet warm atmosphere was beginning to get to him. His eyes blinked slowly, staying closed a few seconds longer than he intended them to. His hands stilled as he began leaning more and more of his weight against John, his eyes now staying shut.

"Oi," John murmured once Sherlock's soothing hands had stilled and he got heavier against him, "don't fall asleep." He languidly kissed Sherlock's collarbone, blinking heavily as water ran down his lashes and into his eyes. He pulled his face back a few inches to rub at them with his fingers, brow furrowing. "We can't both fall asleep in here, that's...bad," he slowly concluded, mind feeling fuzzy, words feeling foreign to him. John settled instead for burying his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck, lazily chuckling as he lowered his hand and slapped the man's arse. 

Sherlock yelped a bit, his eyes flying open. He glared accusingly at John before rolling his eyes. He tried not to smile. And failed spectacularly. "Fine," he sighed dramatically. "Let's get this over with." He continued rubbing at John's skin, his biceps, his hips, his thighs, just _one_  quick stroke up his cock, around to pinch his arse playfully. Which reminded him...

"I think we may need to to wait a day or so before you take me again," he commented regretfully. "Apparently when you shag as _marvelously_  as we do, the transport..." he turned to glare briefly at his own backside, "likes to be annoyingly difficult." He rinsed the body wash off of John and grabbed the doctor's shampoo off the rack. "Turn around, please," he ordered in a soft voice.

The lone thought in John's mind was that this was really nice, Sherlock's hands on him, gently washing him, cleansing him. The light pinch broke him out of his reverie, and he focused on Sherlock's words, pouting into his skin as they processed, feigned whines of complaint leaving his throat. "No, I understand," he quietly laughed soon after, kissing affectionately at Sherlock's jaw three times before following his instruction and turning himself to face the showerhead. "We're only human." 

Sherlock scrubbed Johns hair contemplatively, enjoying the gentle rush of water, the smell of wet skin and body wash, the warmth of the steam and John's blond strands between his fingers. "I can't imagine ever having done this with someone else," he admitted quietly. "Mycroft was... Well, he was _half_  right. Sex never alarmed me, but neither could I imagine giving up that amount of control. Handing myself over to someone, essentially giving someone else the power to hurt me." He turned John back around to face him and tilted his head back to run water through the suds. "I never even considered it. But you... I don't...." He frowned a bit as he considered his words. "I've never trusted anyone so implicitly _not_  to hurt me. Even when we weren't together yet. Does that make sense?" His cheeks burned at the blatant display of sentiment, but he forced himself to blunder through. He needed John to understand.

"Yeah," John said softly, touched, and once the shampoo stopped running down he loosely wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. "And I can't even begin to tell you what that means to me. What this all means to me. I'm not good with words and I don't know _how_. I'm just...I am so, _so_  happy right now," he pointedly whispered, eyes shifting between Sherlock's. "And it's not just because of the sex. Don't get me wrong it's bloody _amazing_ , but it's all in how _right_  this is, and how open we make each other. I love you so much," he concluded with a firm nod before using his arms to pull Sherlock close in a hug. He cleared his throat when he finally released him, briefly kissing his cheek and diverting his eyes before reaching for the body wash and soaping up his hands. "Okay, your turn."

"This is odd," Sherlock mused as John's hands began sliding across his skin. "Sharing a shower. Or I should say, it's odd that it's... _not_  odd. I've never even entertained the idea before, yet I didn't think twice before soaping you down." He smiled and moaned a bit at the soothing quality of John's hands. "You're good at this," he murmured.

"Well I _am_  a doctor. Good hands. That's got to count for something," John said with a smile, massaging Sherlock's shoulders then rubbing down the rest of him, being mindful of any bruises. "Tsk," his tongue clicked, "but then I've also got you black and blue, I'm sorry love." He laughed softly, shaking his head then switched places with Sherlock, letting him under the spray to rinse. John was quiet for awhile, thinking, wanting to bring something to attention, but not really sure how to go about it. Once Sherlock was free of soap he led him a few steps away from the water, turning him to face him before reaching for the shampoo and applying a fair amount to his hands. He brought them up to Sherlock's dark hair, gently running his fingertips over his scalp as he scrubbed. He hummed as he lathered down to the ends; he really loved Sherlock's hair. The thought continued to pester him though, and as he rinsed off the strands, he figured he may as well at least address it.

"So," he started, pursing his lips, "this has sort of been on my mind since yesterday...I know that we're together, I mean obviously, but...are we...? You know...are we...dating? I just don't know how to define this. Not that we need to define this," he added hastily, tripping over his words, "honestly I don't think there's a word that _can_  describe what this is, but...would you opposed to us using a word like...boyfriend?" He waited for a reply as he lightly bit at his lip, fingers running through the man's hair until the last of the shampoo was washed away.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I don't know," he confessed. "Part of me shies away from such a juvenile term, but I can't think of one that fits better. 'Lover' is pretentious. 'Partner' is vague— ohh, that's lovely," he groaned as John's fingers stroked the shampoo out of his curls, shivering lightly. He cleared his throat. "Anyway... I don't mind that term. When used appropriately, if course. Now I have a question for you." He shifted his eyes a little, embarrassed to be asking. "Do you... Would you be opposed to telling people? Not the whole of London," he clarified with a displeased twist of his lips. "Just... A few acquaintances. Really I'm just wondering if you preferred to tell people we aren't together, or if you'd rather just tell the truth when people ask. Or assume, as they tend to do with us. You were quite vehement about it before."

"I don't know," John quietly replied as he thought it over, mirroring Sherlock's statement. "I honestly don't know that I'm going to be able to say it right away. I want to, I'd like the people closest to us to know, it just might take me awhile to get there. Might, might not. And that has nothing to do with you, I'm not ashamed of you, God no, it's just that things are a bit...confusing on my end. I spent a lot of time being very defensive about...even now I don't consider myself gay. I don't know what I am. I just know there's you. It's always you." He shrugged, giving a small sigh. "I've got some stuff to work through. So I guess to answer your question: I don't mind them knowing, in fact I'd prefer it and I won't deny it if it's brought up, but it might be harder for me to do the talking. At least right now."

Sherlock mulled it over as he rinsed the last of the shampoo out of his curls, shutting off the taps and stepping out. "I suppose I understand," he finally answered. He grabbed a towel and began wiping at John's hair and body. "I don't mind doing the talking, if you prefer. To be perfectly honest, part of me wants to tell everyone. The fact that you want me, that you love me, is... I don't know. Unexpected. I'd like to be able to let people know that despite who I am, there is a good, loyal, patient, _perfect_  man who loves me. Gave up everything for me." Sherlock swiped the last of the water from John's chest and pressed a kiss to the clean, warm skin of his throat. Then he grinned a bit. "No one will be able to believe that Sherlock the freak managed to trick someone into loving him. Especially not a respectable army doctor."

"Yeah, well they can go-," he started, shaking his head and taking a second to collect himself before continuing. "You're not a bad man Sherlock, or an unloveable man, and I wasn't tricked into anything." John stepped back to grab another towel, tossing it over Sherlock's head, rubbing over his hair harder than intended in detached annoyance. "So yes, you can tell them, and if they start being stupid, I'll take over from there. You pulled me out of a bloody bonfire for Christ's sake," he grumbled. "What more do they want? You've saved my life countless times, in more ways than one, and not just my life but others as well. I'm here with you and on these cases by bloody choice. You're ridiculous sometimes, true, but not a bad man and it pisses me off that people can still think that. And that goes for you too, okay? I don't like you putting yourself down, either." It was then that he noticed he was talking to a towel. "Oh God, I'm sorry," he said, pulling the towel down and cringing at applying that much pressure when Sherlock was bruised at the back of his head. "Sorry, it's a bit of a sore spot for me," he said, forcing his hands to be gentler as he toweled down the rest of Sherlock's body.

Touched by John's annoyance, Sherlock yanked him into a deep kiss. He'd really only been half joking with his last comment, but then John had been so fiercely protective. So angry on Sherlock's behalf. No one had ever been so affected by the teasing he occasionally endured. Perhaps it had stung a bit when he was a child, but the insults tended to roll off his back now. People were idiots; What did they know anyway? But John... It mattered what John thought of him. From the first meeting, the first case, the first ' _that was amazing'_ , Sherlock had cared what John thought of him. He wanted to impress him, different from the way he normally impressed people. John was special. Sherlock pulled away from the kiss and pulled him into a tight embrace. "Thank you," he murmured, a little embarrassed by the display of emotionalism. He pressed on anyway. "I love you." Saying the words still sent a pleasant ache coursing through his chest.

John gave a small smile, huffing lightly as his forehead fell to Sherlock's shoulder, his irritation easing. "I love you too." A heavy yawn eventually overtook him, a pressing reminder that they both needed to be in bed, and he slowly pulled back, linking his fingers with Sherlock's. "You were cooped up in your room for hours, I didn't get a chance to unpack. Do you have any clothes I can borrow for tonight? I don't feel like digging through my bag right now."

"You didn't sleep in anything last night," Sherlock pointed out, pouting just a bit. Nevertheless, he pulled a large tee and clean boxers out of his drawer. Then he grabbed a pair of boxer briefs and pulled them over his own body. With an exhausted huff, Sherlock collapsed on the large bed and buried his face in his pillows. "I can't feel my legs," he commented, muffled by a pillow. "You're quite good at this sex thing. I don't have anything to compare it to, but I can't imagine it gets much better than _that_." He rolled onto his back and pulled the covers over his body. "I can't wait until I get good, too. I must be rubbish right now," he chuckled sleepily.

"Oho, don't start," John laughed, dressing and pulling the cotton shirt over his head. "I swear, you have no idea how sexy you are. For a virgin, well, former virgin," he said smugly, clicking his tongue, "you've definitely held your own. Good at everything, I tell you." The bed dipped as he climbed onto it, crawling and settling himself under the covers opposite Sherlock. "Oh, that's nice," John groaned, turning on his side and rubbing his face against a pillow. "Hey Sherlock," he mumbled, "if I try to get fresh with you later, you have permission to smack me."

Sherlock grinned as John complimented him, feeling absurdly happy at the mere idea of crawling into bed with his... boyfriend. He wrapped an arm around John's waist and snuggled in closer. "If you 'get fresh with me'? What on earth does that even mean?" His eyes slipped shut as he rubbed his nose against John's. "Not that I'd mind smacking you a bit," he added cheekily with a light tap to John's arse.

John hummed low in his throat against Sherlock. "Watch it," he playfully warned. "If I try and get you turned on again, don't let me; that's all that means. You need to rest, hell, I need to rest, look, I even put clothes on, I'm trying to help you out here," he quietly chuckled, nudging his leg in between Sherlock's, lazily locking them together. He waited for his small residual laughs to die down before speaking again, closing his eyes and laying a brief, gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips. "In all honesty, today was one of the best day's of my life. Thank you for that. Really. Thank you for that." 

"Seriously?" Sherlock asked in confusion. "We began the day by moving you out of the flat you shared with the woman you were planning on spending the rest of your life with. Then progressed to a case that, while mildly interesting to begin with, completely derailed our date. A date I couldn't even plan properly." He paused. "Although the resultant sex was quite good, I'll give you that." Sherlock tightened his leg around John's, thrilled to have him so close in such an intimate, nonsexual way. He felt starved for this affection, this warmth, though he'd never considered wanting it before. He relished in the cosy warmth of their duvet cocoon, the entire room comforting in a way Sherlock had never felt in his own bedroom, as he was never really in there much to begin with.

"Mmhm" John murmured, pressing barely there kisses to Sherlock's jaw. "Dead serious. This morning wasn't exactly pleasant but it was necessary and when it was over...just this massive relief, it felt so good to be leaving with you, feeling like things were going to be okay. And I spent the rest of the day doing exactly what I would have done had I been living here. Well, we weren't shagging before yesterday, but you know what I mean..." He nuzzled impossibly close into Sherlock, sighing in peace. "God, you're so warm. I've really been spoiled these last two days. I'm going to miss you when your sleep schedule's off again." 

Sherlock smiled into John's hair. "Oh, I don't know," he answered, "I think I may have found a reason to sleep more often than I used to." He began trailing his fingertips up and down John's back. John was the one who felt warm, really. "After all, I'm going to need more rest in order to... keep up with you. In fact, it may even affect my appetite. You may have finally found a way to keep me properly fed and rested," he grinned with a small push against John's thigh.

"Jesus Christ, it's a miracle," John murmured, small huffs of laughter melting into Sherlock's collarbone. He felt so pleasantly heavy, luxuriating in those dextrous fingers tracing light patterns along his back, the T-shirt catching and moving with them in an incredibly soothing motion. They were so wrapped up in each other, and John couldn't help his sleepy smile, honestly wondering how he ever went without this. If there ever was such an instance, it sure seemed like a long time ago. Bollocks, his mind fleetingly supplied; it really wasn't. Wasn't that something? He gave a long, tender kiss to the skin of Sherlock's throat, surrendering to the weight of his mind and body, letting his eyes stay shut as he nestled himself, his breathing slowing and evening out as the minutes passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days, I'll remember that holidays are terrible times to post anything. I think I got four views here since the last update? XD
> 
> Adore this chapter, adore this rp. :)


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock didn't remember falling asleep, but he certainly remembered his dream when he woke with a start. His body was covered in a cool sheen of sweat, heart pounding violently. Just a dream. Not real. Sherlock could feel John's arm warm and solid around his waist, anchoring him back in reality. He took slow, deliberate breaths in an attempt to sink back into the blissful warmth he'd fallen asleep to earlier, stroking John's arm with gentle fingers for comfort.

A small sound came from John, his eyebrows furrowing as he tightened his grip, pulling Sherlock closer. His ears were the first sense to register anything, in this case Sherlock's forced, irregular breathing, and he blinked heavily, his eyes fighting him every second of the way to consciousness. John sharply inhaled through his nose, groaning lightly as he slowly supported himself onto his elbow. He stared at Sherlock for a few seconds, gaze unfocused and dense, before finally taking everything in, a somber sigh leaving him as he recognized the symptoms. He knew them all too well.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John said quietly, voice a low rumble as he rubbed at his face with the hand that had been holding Sherlock's waist. He brought the hand back down, reaching over to take one of Sherlock's, giving it a gentle squeeze. "That helps sometimes."

"It won't help," Sherlock replied quietly. He shook his head a bit and pressed backwards into the warm curve of John's body. "I didn't mean to wake you. I'm sorry. Don't worry, it's not important. I'm fine, really." He pulled John's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. "You being here... It helps. Thank you." He measured his breathing so as not to worry John further. It was ridiculous, really. His dreams combined his time away with his constant fear of John's death, his leaving forever. John hadn't been with him in Serbia, but that didn't stop his subconscious with providing him a high-definition vantage point of him being tortured in that basement right alongside Sherlock. He swallowed down the bile in his throat and clenched his eyes shut. 

John pressed his lips to Sherlock's bare shoulder, linking their fingers together and loosely holding their joined hands to Sherlock's chest. There was no telling what Sherlock had seen, and he wasn't going to press further, but it did make him wonder. Nightmares had been a persistent occurrence in his own life, and he wondered what they meant for Sherlock. After meeting the detective, his dreams had faded out almost entirely, his adrenaline addiction being fed and accounted for. But when he thought he had lost Sherlock, they returned and festered into something dark and terrifying, and he couldn't count the number of nights over the two years he had jolted awake crying, shaking, and barely being able to breathe. Towards the end he at least had Mary to bring him back down, but he remembered with pointed clarity how awful it felt before then to be waking up alone. To nothing but his dangerous thoughts in those seconds after. His gun always only inches away. It really hurt him to think of Sherlock suffering in the same way, without him, regardless of the extent and what it was that haunted him. What could that be? John had missed an entire two years, and feeling angry and betrayed among all else at Sherlock's return, he had shut down any explanation of how Sherlock survived that day, or what he had endured, or even where he was. All he knew was that it revolved around Moriarty. Everything prior to that seemed to revolve around him as well. John sometimes wished the madman was alive only so that he could have the pleasure of killing him himself for all he'd caused; he'd kill him twice if it was possible. He shook his head and took deep, slow breaths, his chest moving against Sherlock's back, syncing their breathing to calm his boyfriend down and reassure him.

"You know," he started, trying to say anything to get Sherlock's mind off the subject for at least a second, "When you came back, there was this old nutter that came into my office at work and I swore it was you. I thought you had disguised yourself again, and I couldn't even be mad, I just laughed, laughed because it was so ridiculous. I tried to pull his bloody beard off...and yeah. Wasn't you. Definitely wasn't you. It's a miracle I wasn't fired." He gave a small smile, kissing Sherlock's skin again. "I love you, and everything's okay," he murmured. "You're here, you're safe. It's okay."

Sherlock choked out a laugh, despite the tears welling up in his eyes. He blinked them back and sniffed. "If you had thought it was me, it must have been obvious that it wasn't," he said, soothed by the rhythmic up and down movements of John's chest against his back. "My disguises are far better than that." He fell silent for long minutes, contemplating how bloody lucky he was to have John in his bed, in his life, in any capacity possible. John, who knew exactly what nightmares could do to a person's psyche, something Sherlock had never quite appreciated until it happened to him. He had thought his mind was above conjuring such useless, fictional visions. He was horribly, awfully wrong. But it was okay, because John was here. John understood, and he wouldn't be frightened of Sherlock's rebellious dreams. He would protect Sherlock. Because that's what John Watson has always done best... Protect Sherlock from his own mind. After nearly ten minutes of silence, Sherlock was sure John had fallen back to sleep. Convinced he was correct in his assessment, Sherlock shut his eyes and swallowed. "You'll never have any idea how much I love you, John," he murmured before slipping back to a pleasantly dreamless sleep.

John sleepily smiled into Sherlock's nape, not entirely sure it was intended for him to hear that. He blinked heavily, his body protesting his coherence, but he refused to fall under until Sherlock was at ease and asleep again. So he waited. His grip eventually slackened around the man but their fingers remained intertwined, and several minutes later, he had finally followed Sherlock into unconsciousness.

* * *

They had hardly moved in the subsequent hours, and when John woke again it was embarrassingly to his hips lightly rocking against Sherlock's backside. This realization quickly brought him to alertness, and he slowly rolled over onto his back, staring at the ceiling and contemplating whether or not his half-hard erection was pressing enough to require a quick, discreet wank in the loo. He ultimately decided it was manageable, taking a brief second to marvel at the ability to even get it up after coming so hard these last few days. Some air would probably do him best right now, and he sat up, preparing himself to move and go out and grab the newspaper. Sherlock was still curled on his side, peacefully asleep, and John smiled warmly in admiration, carefully slipping out from under the duvet and bringing the cover back over Sherlock's shoulder. He quietly rose from the bed, exhaling loudly at first, completely forgetting just how much his body had worked last night, the resulting soreness a very strong reminder. John got himself to the sitting room, pulling a robe and some slippers from his bag and putting them on as he left the flat and made his way downstairs.

He was nearly to the front entrance when there was a creak behind him and he heard Mrs. Hudson's voice call out to him from her doorway. 

"Careful love, there's all sorts out there."

 John paused, before raising an eyebrow and turning to face her. "What do you mean?"

"Reporters. Cameras too. They've been here since seven."

"Reporters?" John asked quietly, head moving back in confusion. "Here for _what_?"

"Oh dear..." Mrs. Hudson said nervously, briefly disappearing back into her flat and re-emerging with the newspaper, holding it out to him. "I thought...well between this and all the ruckus last night...walls aren't terribly thick you know."

"I-Oh my God," he loudly cried, startling her as he gaped at a portion of the front page. There was a unquestionable photo of him holding Sherlock's hand and kissing his cheek outside his old flat, and it was blatantly gracing one of the side panels.  Who- _how_? There was a page and section number under the photo, but John couldn't bring himself to fully read the caption, (although his eyes did make out the words _bachelor_  and _famous detective_ ), let alone flip into the paper and actually read the article.

"I always said..." Mrs. Hudson said with a gleeful smile that faded out seconds later. "But you and Mary, you're-"

John didn't wait around to clarify, and in a split second he was clambering up the steps and back into his own flat. He anxiously paced around the sitting room, torn between letting Sherlock sleep and rushing in there, needing him to talk him through this. Had he expected news of this to get around? Yes, at some point. Sherlock was practically a celebrity after all, he garnered far too much attention and it'd be near impossible for this to be kept a secret for long. But not so soon. Not so fucking soon, and Jesus, not like this. John couldn't take it anymore, rolling the paper in his hands and hurrying to the bedroom, leaving his slippers on the floor as he climbed back into bed. He sat aside Sherlock, watching him, hesitating before shaking his shoulder lightly.

Sherlock woke to the feel of John gently shaking his arm. He came into consciousness slowly, blissfully warm and aching. "Mmmm..." he groaned luxuriously, stretching his stiff limbs. He snagged John's hand and pressed a kiss to the fingers. "Morning, love," he murmured against the skin, not even opening his eyes. He and John hadn't been able to relax in bed the morning after their first night together, agreeing that the best course of action was to head straight over to Mary's and get it over with as quickly as possible. And Sherlock never had much of a desire to lie around in bed, anyway. Not when there were cases to be solved, experiments to be tinkered with. But after last night, Sherlock felt as though he could lay in bed with John for days and not get bored once. If he wasn't so unbelievably content, he would have felt a twinge of annoyance towards John for waking him up. Suddenly, Sherlock's mind cleared a bit and he realised... John never woke him up. Not even when they had been living together and John had gone downstairs in the morning to find the smoking remains of an experiment from the night before. John cared too much about Sherlock eating and sleeping, always urging him to do so as often as possible. So for him to be rousing Sherlock when he was sleeping so well... Sherlock turned over, a bit startled by John's tense expression, his tight jaw and faraway gaze. Sherlock's stomach clenched in fear, blood running cold.

"John?" he asked tentatively. "What is it? What's wrong?" His mind flew at the speed of light, trying to remember the night before, if there had been any sour note. Had John decided this wasn't what he wanted? Had Mary called and convinced him to come back to her and the baby? Did he find Sherlock to be sexually incompatible? What, what, _what_? "Is it... Did I do something?"

"Wha-No! God no," John said hurriedly as he shook his head, completely thrown by the question. "No, Sherlock, we've got a problem." He unrolled the paper he had brought, holding it out to Sherlock before slapping his hand against their picture. "How?" John asked sharply, not even giving Sherlock a chance to react. "How did this happen? Who does that? I-Jesus Christ, I wasn't ready, I wasn't fucking ready, and some arsehole just took that from me. I'm pissed Sherlock, I'm _pissed_. We didn't even get a chance to tell anyone! Not on our own terms. Well, other than Mary, but... _oh_." John paused his frantic venting for a long moment, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. "You don't think she said anything, do you?" he said, tensely frowning. "You don't think it was her...well it could have been very easy for her to call someone up when I said I'd be going back over, I mean she _knew_ , no, I don't think it was her." He waited all but two seconds before suddenly jolting up and leaving Sherlock, quickly walking down the hall to dig through yesterday's trousers for his mobile phone. John returned to the bed mere minutes later, flopping down on his back, his head pressed back against the sheets, gaze to Sherlock. "I just got yelled at. Also, her ultrasound's today. I'm going." He remained silent for a long moment, then sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, I'm just trying not to freak out here. I wasn't ready, that's all. I just...wasn't ready."

Sherlock sat there, unable to get a word in edgewise and far too shell-shocked to even try. A small part of him was disgusted by humanity. The front page, honestly. Didn't London have anything better to talk about than some private detective shagging his best mate? The bigger part of him was concerned. He himself couldn't care less that people knew (a traitorous bit of his mind smirked with pride that everyone now knew John was his and he was John's) bit John seemed quite upset about the whole thing. Sherlock had never seen him so... frustrated. He tried not to take it personally. After all, John had explained only the night before his feelings on people knowing about them. He had been very reasonable, and that was why Sherlock was absolutely _not_  going to take this personally. He repeated 'not personal, not personal' in his mind as he took a deep breath and looked at John. "I could have told you it wasn't Mary," he began slowly. "The last thing she wants is press on anything even remotely connected to her. Trust me on this." He swallowed and tossed the newspaper to the ground, grabbing John's hand tightly. "I'm sorry. This shouldn't have happened. If you'd like, I... I can text Mycroft. See if he knows anything about it." He shifted his gaze downwards towards the foot of the bed. "But it won't erase everyone's minds, and I'm so sorry you have to deal with this bollocks because of me." Sherlock squeezed John's hand rhythmically, nearly turning it into a one-handed hand massage. After a few moments of silence, he pulled his hand away and clenched it. If John was having any doubts about this relationship because of that damned article, Sherlock sure as hell wasn't about to overwhelm him with physical touch, a painful reminder of the reason he was in this mess. "Just... Go to the appointment," he ckntunued quietly, staring up at the ceiling. "Once Mycroft finds out who did this, I can... Perhaps I can convince them to post a retraction. Claim the photo was digitally altered to look like you were kissing me. Technology is a remarkable thing nowadays. It's plenty believable, no one will think twice about believing it, and it will be forgotten in a week." He swallowed again and untangled himself from the sheets, pushing up to sit by the side of the bed. "I'll go start tea. You ought to get dressed," he said, grabbing a pair of trousers from his drawer and pulling them on.

John watched Sherlock get up, disappointed and frustrated by both himself and the situation. He had really been looking forward to just crawling back into bed with him after a brief cool down. Couldn't they just have one lazy morning to themselves? "I don't think it'll matter," John said quietly, clenching his jaw and minutely shaking his head as he looked above him. "People have been insinuating this shit since we first met." He cringed at his wording. "I didn't mean it like that. I just mean that they've been waiting for this, and edited photo or not, they _want_  to believe it, so they're going to. Damage is already done." He sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a second, fingertips gripping the bedsheets. This was something he was going to have to work through, and a lot sooner than he intended. It'd be easier with time, he was certain, but he could remember just how long it took him to stop jumping to correct people who had assumed about him and Sherlock. And how quickly his guard went back up when Sherlock passed. He chastised himself because it shouldn't matter, it really shouldn't, this shouldn't bother him. But the news of his feelings towards Sherlock would continue to spread, and among his own internal turmoil at being prematurely exposed, there was also something else nagging terribly at him. Deep-rooted concern. He'd basically just given every crook with ill feelings towards them an opening, an insight they may not have had before. Him and Sherlock had been used against each other in the past, leverage, and it killed John to think of that becoming a more frequent occurrence all because he couldn't publicly keep his affection controlled that day. He hated the unfairness of it all, and what all of this could mean for their future. Would he ever be able to simply hold Sherlock's hand down a bloody street without being ridden with anxiety? Everything he was thinking now continually running through his mind? He swallowed, opening his eyes and slowly standing himself up off the bed. "Maybe you can just see if there's anything Mycroft can do about the crowd outside," he said thickly, fingers clenching at his side. "Because if I deck someone in the face, they'd really have something to talk about, and it wouldn't be good." He walked past Sherlock, out of the bedroom and returned with his duffel bag. He pulled out a change of clothes for himself, and right as he was about to ask Sherlock if it was okay for him to put the rest of his stuff away, it all hit him again, and he hesitated.

 _Hesitated_.

That was enough to do it, his eyes suddenly stinging, and he kept himself turned from Sherlock, pointedly watching the ceiling to try and stop it. "Sherlock, can you go start the tea? I...I need a minute."

Sherlock stood there for a moment longer, unsure of whether he was meant to stay and comfort John or take him at his word and go get things in order. He eventually left the room in silence, his gut churning. _Not personal, not personal_ , he chanted in his mind. John wasn't upset with him, he didn't regret this. He was... he was... Sherlock swallowed down the lump of fear. John could very well realise that this was more trouble than it was worth. Mary would take him back in a heartbeat. John wasn't even gay. And now these fucking reporters threatened to be the catalyst that catapulted him back into reality. The more Sherlock thought about it, the more his pulse pounded. His head swam with the sleep he'd been so unceremoniously woken from, and his knees buckled beneath him. He landed heavily onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands. Damn them. Damn every single one of those reporters to hell. They were going to take this away from him, and he'd only had it for two days. His eyes burned with unshed tears, and he swiped at them furiously. No. He wasn't going to sit here and cry uselessly while his life crumbled around him. He stood and shot a text off to Mycroft.

 _I require your assistance. -SH_  

After a small pause, he added

_Please. -SH_

As he waited for a reply, Sherlock methodically started preparing the tea. Unfortunately, the silence was deafening around him. The words _People have been insinuating this shit since we first met_  bounced around in his skull. John loved him, he did. Sherlock just had to believe that. He had to hang onto it as desperately as possible. And yet... John had never been comfortable with people assuming they were a couple. _Not gay. Not his date. Not his boyfriend._  None of it _was_  true at the time, of course, but John had been so firm about it. So unwavering. Sherlock didn't want to believe that John's love for him was born out of guilt and sentiment after Sherlock's return, but the tiny, hateful, self-conscious voice in his head refused to _shut up_. The kettle clicked off and he just leaned against the counter, head hanging low in thought.

John exhaled in relief when Sherlock left him; he currently didn't feel consolable, and it was best for Sherlock to be spared the trouble of trying. Leaving the nearly full bag on the bed, he took his change of clothes and moved into the bathroom. He took his time readying himself, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to talk himself down; mentally repeating to himself that he had every right to be upset, but this level of panic was ridiculous. Christ, he _knew_  that. He stayed until he ran out of things to do, finally leaving to join Sherlock in the kitchen, the man standing unmoving against the counter, lost. Who knew how long he'd been there. The room was quiet but the air tense, and John _hated_  it. He slowly approached him, his gaze down, stepping forward until he was in front of him. _Fix it_ , he told himself. _Fix it_. But he couldn't bring himself to meet Sherlock's eyes, and when he reached up to kiss his cheek, it was with pause and the tiniest brush of his lips; pathetic really. John looked over Sherlock's shoulder, disgusted with himself, and his eyes burned again, threatening. He sighed in distress and dropped his head down onto the shoulder, slowly bringing his arms up to wrap around Sherlock instead. "This isn't you," he fiercely whispered against him, "It's me, it's me okay? I'm overwhelmed right now, and I don't know how to handle that. But I'll figure it out. I promise, I'll figure it out..." 

Sherlock stood there frozen for a moment, willing his arms to lift and return the embrace. His body felt heavy and numb, the messages not quite transferring from his brain. He swallowed and twitched his fingers. "John," he began in a quiet voice, "I—" Suddenly his mobile buzzed on the counter next to him, making them both jump. Sherlock gently extricated himself from John's grasp. "Excuse me," he muttered, getting away and snatching up the phone.

_Detective Inspector Lestrade will be there shortly to remove the small crowd from in front of 221B. I will personally contact each media outlet represented there. Apologies to both you and Doctor Watson for what you must be going through. Please do let me know if there's anything I can do for either of you. -M_

Sherlock typed a simple

 _Thank you. -SH_  

and passed the phone over for John to read Mycroft's response.

"Okay," John said, releasing a deep breath as he read the text then handed Sherlock back the mobile. "Thank you. I owe them one." He looked into Sherlock's eyes, nodding before diverting his gaze to the forgotten kettle. He moved to pull two cups from the cupboards, finishing up the tea and giving Sherlock one, standing against the counter next to him. He sighed, looking down to the lukewarm cup in his hands, conversing to pass the time. "I just don't know why it's so bad for me. I mean my sister's gay, that's never bothered me," John said, lightly shaking his head, "so why am I doing this to myself? I fell for a bloke, that's not a big deal. I mean obviously I had no problem when we were..." He took a sip from his cup, the liquid running down his throat, blinking in thought. "I think what really scares me, what's always scared me is the intensity of what I feel for you. And I know the type of attention that warrants when it comes to us, I mean, I've seen it just now, and...I don't want that to be on display for the world. I can share your mind with them, share the work, but I don't want to share _you_. I don't want to share what we have. Not with anyone we aren't close to anyway. I'm going to need some privacy, and I just...I worry about you being safe. I need you to be safe."

Sherlock stared down into his tea and swallowed, his dry throat clicking. "So... You're not..." _Leaving me? Considering leaving me? Going to decide this is more trouble than it's worth?_ He looked up to meet John's gaze and inhaled sharply. No. John wasn't going anywhere. The look on his face was unguarded and open. Honest. "You're worried because... you think we'll be more of a target? Because of how strongly we feel for each other?" Sherlock knew that wasn't the whole truth, but it was enough. Because he could tell that John meant it wholeheartedly. Whatever more shameful feelings he may be feeling, he couldn't quite define them. Because he didn't want to feel them. And Sherlock could see that clear as day. He set down his mug and stepped forward, leaning down haltingly to brush tentative lips against John's.

"As long as you don't decide to leave," he whispered in a hush, "Then it's all fine. I will wait for you to be ready, and I will do my damnedest to keep people's noses out of our business." Sherlock puckered his lips to press more firmly against John's, fingers gripping his shirt tightly.

"Not going anywhere," John said quietly, after the pleasant kiss. "Besides, I just got you sleeping properly, what kind of doctor would I be if I took off now?" He gave a small smile, closing his eyes and nudging his forehead against Sherlock's. "Do you think Lestrade will be peeved? I mean, we didn't invite him to the stag and now he has to find out about us like this. Some friends we are," he said with a slight huff.

"I'll say," came a voice from the doorway. Sherlock and John nearly snapped their necks turning to face the Detective Inspector himself, casually leaning against the doorframe. He was grinning a bit sheepishly. Sherlock broke away from John's grasp quickly, flushing. Bit useless of course, now that everyone and their dog were aware of this relationship, but Sherlock didn't want to make John more uncomfortable than he already was. Surely one of their friends catching them in a slightly compromising scenario would trigger such reactions, and Sherlock very much did not want that. He cleared his throat. "Lestrade," he greeted politely. Lestrade chuckled a bit. "Sorry mates, Mrs. Hudson said I could come right up. Didn't mean to interrupt you mid-snog," he finished with a smile and a suggestively quirked eyebrow.

John's wide eyes flashed to a random fixed point directly in front of him then back to Greg, a deep shade of red developing over his cheeks and ears. "Yeah, so," he hurriedly started, clearing his throat and turning his body towards him, having a hard time looking him in the eye for more than two seconds at a time. "You get them cleared out?"

Greg's eyes shifted between them, obviously picking up on tension that shouldn't be there so early in the kind of relationship he just walked in on. He cleared his throat again. "Yeah, and, uh, Mycroft's getting ahold of their bosses as we speak. I pity the poor sods a bit, to be honest," he chuckled bitterly. "But not too much."

Sherlock nodded. "Excellent. I..." He clenched his jaw and shifted his eyes. "I appreciate your help. Thank you." Greg's eyes widened in surprise, and he glanced over at John, who was also avoiding his gaze. Okay, something was definitely wrong. "Sherlock, why don't you go see Mrs. Hudson. She asked me to send you down for biscuits." Sherlock could see the embarrassingly obvious intent behind the request, but he went anyway, desperate for a small break from the growing tension in the room. Once he was safely downstairs, Greg turned towards John. "Trouble in paradise, mate?"

"No," John said quietly, leaning back against the counter, his nails lightly tapping along the surface. "Not from him, anyway. He's...he's great. Perfect." He clenched his jaw, his eyes falling to the floor, astonished at how words were threatening to spill from him; at how much he actually wanted and needed to talk to someone else. Someone he trusted, and someone who wasn't Sherlock. There had been emotional vomit all over the place recently, and he was relieved to give Sherlock a break; to stop bringing him down with him. He fleetingly considered also scheduling an appointment with his therapist again, maybe that could help. "There's just a lot that has happened in such a short period of time, and it's a bit...paralyzing. I called off my wedding, and I'm having a baby, Mary is, and I'll be there, but I won't _be_  there you know, and I'm finally with Sherlock and I'm happy...happy in a way that I don't think I've ever really been, but these _people_...Christ, it's just happening so fast, and I guess that's starting to hit me. This is real, this is very real. I have to watch every decision I make from here on out, and there's always the chance of feelings and someone getting hurt, and it's a lot of pressure." He pursed his lips, then looked over in Greg's direction. "I hate that I'm doing this to him. You should see the way he looks at me, like he...can't even believe that I'm here, like it's so impossible, and then there's me, and I...I'm just a headache for both of us." He sighed, pausing for a long moment. "I want to be the person that he wants, I want him to be happy and know that my feelings towards him aren't changing, but with everything going on, I don't know, I don't know that that's even getting through. It's just a lot," he concluded, biting at the inside of his cheek. "Sorry, I totally just unloaded on you."

Greg absorbed the barrage of information in silence, letting John unload the way he clearly needed to. Once John stopped for air, Greg stepped forward and patted his shoulder, squeezing a bit. "Don't worry about it, John. Sometimes you need to talk to an outside party. It's all good. And first of all, Jesus, congratulations on the baby." He smiled encouragingly, trying to meet John's downturned eyes. "Seriously. You're gonna make a brilliant dad. In fact..." He turned around and pulled a bottle of whisky out of the cupboards, along with two healthy-sized tumblers. He poured one for each of them and held one out to John. "Cheers." Once John took it, he clinked their glasses together and took a sip. "Second of all, you've always been the person Sherlock wants. Hell, you're the _only_  person Sherlock Holmes has _ever_  wanted. You have every right to be upset about those fuckers out there. Absolutely. Hell, it's only my professionalism that kept me from chinning the smarmy ginger one," he huffed in amusement. "Look, mate, only time is going to make him realise you're not going anywhere. Which I know for a fact, despite only finding out half an hour ago." He raised an eyebrow in mock-accusation. "Because I've seen the way you two look at each other, especially after he came back. You should have seen him. And you _have_  already seen the worst of him, I reckon there's not much left he can scare you off with at this point." Greg took another swallow and set down the glass. "I'm just saying that as long as you both keep your heads and don't fuck up too badly, you're going to be fine. That man downstairs would do anything to keep you from leaving. So call me if either of you screw up, and I'll knock some sense into the both of you, yeah?"

John snorted, unable to stop a small smile from appearing on his face. "Okay," he said, looking at Greg, lightly nodding. "Okay." He took a few more sips of the whiskey in his hand, the alcohol burning pleasantly down his throat, and then set his glass down on the counter. "That's it for me. I show up drunk to that ultrasound and Mary will have yet another reason to castrate me." He hummed in thought, a few minutes passing as Greg finished his drink. "Shit, he's taking an awful long time to get biscuits," he eventually laughed, pointing with his thumb towards the stairwell, well aware that wasn't the purpose of him leaving the room whatsoever. Although, he did hope there was at least _some_  aspect of truth to it; he was _starving_. "Thanks Greg," he said genuinely, "really. For everything."

"No problem, mate," Greg answered with a small smile. He drained his glass and coughed at the burn. "Right, well. I'm off then. Just wanted to make sure you two were all right. Don't fuck it up." He shook John's hand. "Oh, and if you could have Sherlock text me the pocket watch details asap, I'd really appreciate it. You can come in tomorrow to give your statements." Greg gave a small wave and headed downstairs, passing Sherlock on the steps with a clap to the arm and a whisper. Sherlock responded with wide eyes, finally coming up after Greg had left the building. He carried a plate of biscuits and a warmed breakfast, handing it to John. "Mrs. Hudson sent this up for you. Said we're going to need our strength if we're going to 'be going at it with that level of enthusiasm'," he quoted with flushed cheekbones. "Anyway, you need to be leaving soon, don't you? I'd recommend brushing your teeth first. Wouldn't want Mary to smell whiskey on your breath at an ultrasound appointment before noon." He offered a small smile and turned to fix himself another cup of tea.

The corner of John's mouth curled up in a smile, and he took his breakfast, setting it down on the table. He needed a fork, and en route came up behind Sherlock, slowly wrapping his arms around his waist and burying his face between his shoulder blades. "We should warn her to turn her telly up next time," he joked, reaching up to softly kiss at the base of his neck. "I'm mortified she heard us but at the same time...yeah, so not sorry for pulling those sounds from you. Like it far too much." He pulled himself away, slightly flushed himself as he pulled a fork and knife from a drawer. "I'm just going to finish this and I'll head out. And you better be eating some of these," he added as he sat down and pulled a biscuit onto his plate.

"Not hungry—" Sherlock replied automatically as his stomach growled in protest. He twisted his lips. "On second thought," he amended, swiping a wafer to nibble on, "I did hypothesise an increase in appetite." He took his tea and biscuit and crossed behind John to enter the living room, pausing to drop a hesitant kiss to the top of his head. Sherlock was still growing used to these random acts of affection, always having found them to be useless and lacking in his own personal relationships. However, it couldn't be any more difficult to carry them out than it had been restraining himself every second they'd lived together. And perhaps if he could show John how much Sherlock loved him, needed him, then maybe Sherlock could ease his mind as to whether John was in this for the long haul. _Which he is_  his mind reiterated firmly. "So what did Lestrade have to say?" he asked in an exceedingly casual voice, opening John's laptop. It was important to hear how John responded to a friend (and colleague) learning about their situation. It would help determine John's current state of mind, something Sherlock needed desperately to assess.

"Basically that we're a pair of idiots; idiots who are crazy about each other, and that it's just going to take time for our fears to ease a bit. Very reasonable, Greg," he said, in between chewing his food. "I'm glad he came. He wants you to text him about the last case, we didn't exactly get around to that....ah, and we'll need to stop by the Yard tomorrow." He finished the rest of his plate in silence, his thoughts now shifting to the nearing ultrasound. There was a slight fluttering feeling in his stomach, a nervous excitement creeping in at the thought he'd soon be seeing the very first glimpse of his baby. He stood from the table, half a biscuit hanging out of his mouth as he washed his plate and disappeared to go brush his teeth.

Sherlock watched him go, the tight knot in his stomach ebbing away slowly. John would still be angry about the reporters for a long time, and he was far from 100% comfortable with the situation. But he and Sherlock were going to be okay. John had committed to this. John had been ecstatic about the idea of making a room for the baby at 221B. Yes, they were going to be just fine. As John emerged from the loo with fresh breath, Sherlock stood up and immediately pulled him into a fervent kiss. It was maybe just slightly more intense of a kiss than the situation really called for—it wasn't exactly a goodbye peck—but Sherlock didn't care. He gripped John's face tightly between his palms and kissed him soundly, his entire body melting as the tension slipped away. He pulled back and nudged John's nose with his own. "We really need to get around to a lie-in one of these mornings," he demanded in a rough voice. But he was smiling. "Bring home a picture of the baby," he said with a final kiss, pulling back to let John go.

"Mmhm," John hummed, smiling warmly up at Sherlock. "And will do. Shouldn't be gone too long, although I'll probably take Mary out for coffee afterwards, need to make sure she's okay. Especially after the whole fiasco this morning. Ah, and don't forget to text Lestrade." He licked his lips in thought as he patted down his jeans, trying to remember if he was forgetting anything. "Hey, feel free to move me in if you get bored, add my socks to your sock index, all that," he said with a chuckle, turning to hunt down his keys. He found them among yesterday's scattered clothing, plucking them up before walking towards the stairwell. "I'll see you in a bit love," he called into the flat before heading out on his way. 


	8. Chapter 8

It didn't take long for Sherlock to take John up on his offer, hauling John's things into his room and carefully arranging them around and in with his own. Unfortunately, John didn't have that much, and the task didn't take up quite as much of Sherlock's alone time as he had hoped. The silence in the flat was a bit unbearable. As much as he trusted John, the feeling of _empty_  that was so tangible in the flat was even worse after everything that had happened that morning. If it had been up to him, he would have dragged John back to bed, wrapping around around him tightly and not letting him escape their cocoon of safety. Normally Sherlock detested safety, and he knew John did as well, but this kind of danger was different. This was nothing like the adrenaline rush of risking your life for the work. It was a cold trickle of _something_  down the back of your neck. It was the annoying sensation of being helpless, a feeling Sherlock had detested his entire life. He shook himself out of it and texted the watch case details to Lestrade (with far more effort than he normally put into the task). Still feeling twitchy, he decided to indulge John's desire for him to participate in domestic activities once in a while. He stripped the sheets off their bed and carried the lot of it down to Mrs. Hudson, wheedling until she agreed to do the washing. Close enough. He moved things around the kitchen restlessly, and realised he was beginning to feel claustrophobic. Stuck in his own flat. Desperate for some fresh air, Sherlock grabbed his coat and decided to head to Track's. After all, there were a few items he required for his latest experiment. And if he happened to pick up a gallon of milk and another bottle of lubrication, well. He supposed it wasn't _that_  much of a hardship.

* * *

John had almost expected the meeting with Mary to be tense; despite how well she had taken everything, the wounds were still open and fresh for the both of them. But this was the beginning of what would be a very long road, and they managed to keep any strain to a minimum, even finding common ground over their and Sherlock's cumulative earlier exposure. Mary had gotten prepped for the ultrasound, and now here they were, time almost freezing as a black and white image danced around a screen. John's eyes eagerly searched over the image and when he finally zeroed in on the baby's form with the technician's help, he couldn't contain his little exhale, his broadening grin, or the few tears that rapidly collected at the corners of his eyes. He wiped at them with his fingers, absolutely beaming, his eyes transfixed on the monitor, Mary smiling widely up at it as well. John couldn't classify the overwhelming urge he suddenly had, and he reached for Mary's hand, taking it and firmly squeezing it. The touch wasn't rejected, but Mary's gaze shot to him, and when he finally tore his eyes away from the baby, he recognized the very open, familiar expression. Sherlock often looked at him like that. Like any act of kindness from him was beyond reason, undeserved. His eyebrows lightly furrowed in confusion, but she looked back up to the screen, masking whatever there had been. But he'd seen _something_ , and his thoughts clouded, turning sour and negative towards himself very quickly. He was reminded that he shouldn't be allowed to be this happy, considering the circumstances. He was devastated when he first heard the news of the baby after all, his mind pushing back joy and pride to focus solely on consequential entrapment. And then there was this woman, this wonderful, clever, kind woman, carrying his child, a solid force despite everything he was putting her through; his heart was free where her's was not.  He removed his hand, prompting Mary to look back and see the impending distress written all over his face. She watched him, but remained quiet through the rest of the appointment, and John managed to press on. Once they were out however, she led him into a small, nearly empty cafe to talk. It wasn't for terribly long, a half hour at most, and amid glances and whispers from occasional passerby and the small bout of resulting anxiety on John's part, they actually held a very thorough conversation. She brought him back down, like she was so good at doing, and they each expressed their fears and their situation in more detail. It was reassuring to hear from Mary that he'd be a good father, that he wasn't a bad man; he wasn't sure how much he actually believed it right now, that was also something he was still working on, but it was a nice sentiment. John also told her he'd be helping her pay for their old flat if she wished to remain there; he did just up and leave without any prior notice. When they were ready to part ways, he walked her outside and hailed her a cab. They said goodbye, and she walked a few feet towards the car before stopping and turning around to him.

"John, I-" she hurriedly started.

There it was again. She looked _guilty_ , only this time there was a hint of desperation to it. Mary cut herself off, briefly dropping her eyes to the ground before bringing her gaze back to him.

"I'll be in touch." 

Once Mary had driven away, he took his own cab headed in the opposite direction, trying to comprehend what could possibly make her look like that. Himself he could understand, but for her to carry any fault, it didn't make sense. He didn't let himself dwell too long; he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to. When he returned to 221B, his baby's photograph in hand, he determinedly shut out all low points of the day, desperately needing to hold onto something absolute. John called out for Sherlock the second he was in his flat, walking through the sitting room and into the bedroom, but it didn't appear that Sherlock was home. He looked over to the closet and gave a light smile; there was something incredibly anchoring about his things finding their home among Sherlocks'. Reassuring somehow. He made his way back to the sitting room, seating himself on the sofa and looking once more at the picture before setting it down on the coffee table. He fully laid himself down and took a deep breath, resting an arm under his head. John briefly glanced over at his open laptop but had no desire to check his blog, his inbox, or anything of the sort. He just wanted everything to shut off for awhile. Maybe take Sherlock somewhere far away and go on a holiday. Just disappear for a few days. But this would all be waiting for him when they came back. Or maybe they could move. Sherlock would never agree to it though, not with his work and resources here, and quite frankly, he couldn't see himself living anywhere else right now either, especially with a baby on the way. Not to mention Sherlock had an international reputation for Christ's sake. Wouldn't matter where they were, it'd be all the same, people would know his face, know of them, and of their now-romantic relationship. He sighed heavily, mentally repeating to himself that the sooner he got over all this, the better. It was so quiet in the flat, pleasant, but naggingly incomplete. This was the first time he'd been truly separated from Sherlock in the past few days, and despite it only having been a few hours, he really did miss him. John grabbed his mobile from the coffee table, ignoring the missed call from his sister (of course she'd choose now to make an effort to talk to him), and he sent off a few texts to Sherlock.

Home. The baby's tiny, but seeing them was honestly one of the most remarkable moments of my life. -JW  
Be careful out there. I swear, people looked like fish with how they were gaping. I love you. -JW  
Hmm, on that note, do you think if I grow the mustache again it'll help me go a tad more incognito? -JW

He huffed lightly, anticipating _that_  answer, and he set his phone down on his chest, watching the ceiling, letting his thoughts continue to run rampant in the silence.

"If you grow back that abomination, I might just leave you," Sherlock threatened mildly, striding in through the door with grocery bags in his arms. He gave John a soft smile and set them down on the kitchen table. "You'll just have to think of something else if you'd like to be unrecognisable for a while." He crossed over to the sofa and immediately sat astride John, leaning down to give him a firm kiss. The heavy knot in Sherlock's stomach dissipated immediately, reassured by the solid weight of John beneath him, his lips warm and soft and _delicious_. "Hello," he murmured, rubbing his nose teasingly against John's.

"Hi," John whispered with a grin, incredibly relieved by Sherlock's presence. "Alright, so no mustache, got it. Hats?" he teased. "Could go around wearing the deerstalker, might be mistaken for any old fan. Which I am, but not many fans-" he grasped Sherlock's face with his hands, kissing him deeply and moaning lightly, "get to do that. At least they better not." He was feeling a bit cheeky, a drastic change over his attitude this morning and afternoon. God, he just happy to have Sherlock around again. "Mmm," he hummed as he remembered, "over there." He pointed to the coffee table, the photo within Sherlock's reach. "That's the baby. Little over two months in."

Sherlock reached over to grab the photo, settling back down against John, tucking his head under his chin. His eyebrows furrowed as he peered at the photo closely. The silence stretched on uncomfortably as he continued staring at it. Sherlock clenched his jaw. "I..." He curled into John, gripping his shirt in annoyance. "I don't see it," he admitted with a scowl, slapping it down onto John's chest.

"Wha-no! It's right there Sherlock, look-" John took the photo from his chest, bringing it back into Sherlock's view. "You see that big black spot thing, technician said it's in there, right...here, that's what they said."

Sherlock squinted a bit and grabbed John's wrist, tugging it closer. His eyes flickered over it for a moment. "Oh," he replied flatly, loosening his grip. "Yes, of course. Right there. Obviously. It looks... well." He shot John a stiff smile.

"Shuddup," John said with a small laugh, setting the picture back down on the table. "They'll get bigger." He brought a hand up to Sherlock's hair, fingers loosely carding through his dark curls. "Anyone bother you while you were out?"

"Mm..." Sherlock rumbled low in his chest, nuzzling into the touch. Truthfully, he still hadn't seen the bloody thing, only a peanut-looking smudge in the left-hand corner. Ah well. He'd sneak it away to study closer. "No," he replied. "I wasn't out long, though. After putting away your things and taking the washing down to Mrs. Hudson, I went to do a bit of shopping." He mouthed at John's collarbone, relishing the feel of warm skin beneath his lips. "Although I don't imagine it will be long before Mycroft wants to pay a visit," he grimaced. "As well as your sister, who I imagine has already attempted to contact you."

"Hmph, yeah she has," John grumbled. "Wouldn't even mind your brother coming around, he's actually been quite the help. But Harry...nah, she just wants gossip. And I'm not in any mood to hear 'I told you so's. She never even got back to me about coming to the wedding." He laid a long kiss to the top of Sherlock's head, smiling lightly after a while. "Hah, you know what? You spent all that time teaching me how to waltz, and I didn't even up using any of it."

Sherlock grinned and clambered off of John. He walked over to the desk and picked up a small remote, switching on his ipod dock. A lovely waltz he had been composing began playing softly as he strolled back over to the sofa. "May I have this dance?" he asked in a low voice, holding out his hand and trying to keep a straight face.

John moved to a sitting position, staring at Sherlock's hand and giving a long, slightly exaggerated sigh. "I didn't-ah hell, okay." He shook his head as he took Sherlock's hand and stood, but he was smiling as they moved past the coffee table for more room. "Ah, I suppose we have to clarify now, you know, two blokes...er, I only know what you taught me, and I was the...uh, groom," he said awkwardly, flushing a bit.

"If you're saying you need to lead, I had already assumed that," Sherlock replied, amusement heavy in his tone. He took John's hand and wrapped it around his waist, stepping forward until they were flush against each other. "I was your tutor, after all," he murmured, taking John's other hand and dipping down to press a kiss to his lips. Just because he could. God, Sherlock hoped he never got used to that.

He smiled up at Sherlock, took a deep breath and started, taking that first step forward into Sherlock's space. Christ, he was a bit nervous. How did that come about? They'd done this several times already, mostly because he was quite the terrible dancer and desperately needed the practice. However, he was also fully aware that his low level of skill wasn't entirely honest at times, but feigning being worse than he actually was gave him a safe excuse to do this more, be this close. Hiding behind curtains and the premise of his forthcoming marriage, it was all okay. Okay to be holding Sherlock just like this, moving with him, his imaginings able to run unrestrained without anyone else knowing. So, here, right now, with the circumstances changed, it was all different somehow. Because he wasn't doing this for Mary, he was doing this for Sherlock. Sherlock, who was all long lines and graceful, elegant in his movement; who's face always lit up in a way John had never actually seen before they started practicing. This wasn't anything like the sort of elation over the work, this was something else entirely. Something more honest, and John loved every second of watching this almost childlike peace and innocence bloom over Sherlock's features. He would never look like Sherlock did while dancing, and it wasn't really his cuppa tea, but he'd partner with Sherlock for the rest of his life if asked just to experience it all over again. "Is this you?" he asked quietly, cocking his head to the player. "It's lovely."

"Mm," Sherlock acknowledged with a small nod. "I've been working on it for a few weeks now. Figured it would make a decent present for the—" he couldn't bring himself to say _wedding_. His hand tightened a bit on John's bicep, and he made a very conscious effort to relax it. They circled around the living room with small, slow steps, John's technique far better than he remembered from their tutoring sessions. In hindsight, he now had his suspicions as to John's motive. Perhaps they had matched his own. However much he enjoyed dancing already, Sherlock believed there was no way to improve it past dancing with _John_. He nudged John's temple with his nose, hiding his face. "Are we... all right now?" He asked in a low voice. "After this morning... Everything is okay now, yes? With us?"

"I'm sorry if I scared you," John said quietly, staring past Sherlock's shoulder. "I know I didn't have the best reaction this morning, but that was the last thing I wanted." He gave a long exhale, pressing his hand firmer along Sherlock's waist. "I don't ever want you to doubt that I love you, or think that I don't want to be here, because God, I do. There's just things that are going to come with all this, and I'll have to learn to deal with them when they do. You know, I always figured that on the off chance that we ever _did_  happen, that this would be the easy part...because of everything we've been through, and all the build-up. You and me, that makes every bit of sense in the universe. But in terms of everything else, it's...quite complicated. But I'll do whatever I need to for this to be okay. I want more than anything for you to feel secure in us, but I don't really see that truly happening until we both get where we need to be. But we're going to get there, and someday, who knows, maybe we'll look back on this when we're older and laugh at how ridiculous we were being." John huffed lightly and took an unrehearsed chance, carefully dipping Sherlock down, his hand sliding up a bit to support his back. 

"John!" Sherlock yelped in surprise, chuckling happily as he realised what John was doing. "You're much better than you let on," he accused with a grin. As John slowly straightened him back up, the grin faded into something softer, a bit apologetic. "I've been a bit ridiculous," Sherlock admitted sheepishly. He picked at a loose thread on John's shirt. "You've been... wonderful. And patient and reassuring and you've told me time and time again how you feel, and... It's utterly ridiculous, I don't know why I'm so..." Sherlock huffed sharply, grasping desperately at the words he wanted. "I know you love me. I do. And I'll try not to doubt myself every time anything negative happens. I _certainly_  know better than to doubt you. So I apologise for... losing it a bit. Withdrawing. Forgetting that this morning wasn't easy on you either. And I'm sorry." He smoothed a hand down John's arm and pressed a kiss to his temple. Then he chuckled. "You're a terrible influence. I never used to be this sentimental."

"Looks good on you," John murmured, smiling softly, both hands settled on Sherlock's waist. He was quiet for a moment, contemplating. "I want to do something tonight. Later. This may sound absolutely mental, but after everything I just...I need a break from us being 'famous Sherlock Holmes and his partner John Watson'. Honestly. Right now, I need to be reminded that we're just like anyone else. Well," he said, looking to the ceiling, "at least on a base level. But we should be entitled to enjoy each other's company without us being harassed or having this ridiculous attention drawn, and I want to know that I, I can be with you out there without fucking...panicking...I need that, I...Christ, what am I trying to say here...I want to take you out. Properly...I want to try. I can plan something, you may hate it, I may have to end it early to come back home, I don't know, but I want to try to do this. That okay?"

 Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh... John, you really don't have to do that," he insisted, raising a hand to cup John's face. "I know you love me. You have nothing to prove. Really. There's no case tonight, we can just... I don't know... Order takeaway or something. Watch something dull on the telly while you pretend to be annoyed at me shouting at it." Sherlock leaned forward and nudged John's chin upwards with his nose, pressing sucking kisses to the underside of his jaw. "A proper night in, just like before. I only just got back my favourite flatmate, after all." He paused. "I'd quite like to go on a proper date with you, if only to see what all the fuss is about. But only if you're sure. And not because you feel you need to prove something to me or any other wanker in London."

"Pretend to be annoyed...bah, you can read me like a book," John huffed, smiling and opening his eyes. "And staying in sounds lovely too, I'd be more than happy to just relax with you for the entire rest of the day, but it's comfortable and my thoughts aren't hindered here, and I'm mentally exhausted. I just want to have a nice time somewhere, and I don't want to _think_ ," he said with a low, quiet chuckle. "But that'll be later, and if we go I'll try not to make it too cringeworthy. I'm into this sort of thing, but you might not be; either way, I'll appreciate you trying." He sought out Sherlock's lips, sighing in content against him before stepping back and moving towards the kitchen to put the shopping away.

"I'm not going to hate it, John, and I think I resent the implication," Sherlock quipped, though he was grinning stupidly as he flopped dramatically onto the sofa. He opened John's laptop and automatically opened John's blog to check for cases, hurriedly clicking out when he remembered that he didn't _want_  a case tonight. He and John would be going on a _date_.

"Oh!" he called suddenly towards the kitchen. "I bought more lubrication. It should be in with the baking soda and the wine. And I purchased milk as well, but don't get used to it. Special occasion," he elaborated with a bright smile shot towards John.

"Someone's a bit eager," John said with a grin as he removed the items from the bags. "We've still got a little less than half a bottle...somewhere around here. Although I do suppose we're going to be burning through this stuff like mad now, it's amazing, look at what I've done to you," he said with a small, proud laugh. "And ah, milk, of course, now if you can only remember to refrigerate it immediately, we'll be good to go." He smiled and fondly shook his head as he put the groceries away, stepping out of the room to transport the lube to the bedroom. John returned to the sitting room and strode over to the sofa, lifting up Sherlock's legs a bit to sit under them, laying them over his lap. He sat quietly for a second, his eyes meeting and staring down the ultrasound picture on the coffee table once more. He ended up diverting his gaze, because there was a noticeable bit of unease in his gut and he couldn't fathom where it came from or why it was there. John focused himself on something else. "So, I'm curious," he asked, pulling off Sherlock's shoes to rub at his ankles and feet, "I mean, you don't have to answer, it's a bit blunt...but, are you...do you consider yourself...gay? I've just never known, don't know if anyone ever has, and I've always wondered." 

Sherlock wriggled his toes against John's fingers, surprised by the simple action. No one had ever touched his feet before, much less given him a _foot rub_. Was this the kind of affection a relationship entailed? He'd never considered this side of it before. But he liked it. He hummed in contentment and melted further into the sofa, setting the laptop on the table.

"I didn't consider myself _anything_  before I met you," he answered in a low rumble. "You've rather skewed my perception of myself." He stopped to consider the question further, a bit distracted by John's fingers kneading the ball of his foot. "The closest I ever came to feeling something like this for someone else was the woman, I suppose. Although that was more of a mental— God, that feels lovely," he groaned suddenly. To Sherlock's mild humiliation, he could feel his cock stirring slightly. He silently berated it and continued, clearing his throat. "As I said, that was purely mental. And I was already quite keen on you by that point, so it really wasn't much of a comparison at all." Sherlock's body relaxed under John's talented touch, but he tensed back up to keep from rocking against nothing. He tugged his foot out of John's grip. "Thank you, I think I'm fine now," he muttered in a rush, crossing his ankles.

"Okay," John said quietly, slowly dropping his frozen hands down to his sides. God, it was amazing how self-conscious he could become at the mere mention of the woman, and Sherlock pulling away, for whatever reason, didn't really help either. He knew that he'd get some sort of answer for himself when he asked Sherlock that; if there were others he had been interested in, if he had a type, if he had ever considered...her. John couldn't even remember the last time he had been that jealous. She was beautiful, confident, sexy, and clever, and Sherlock's apparent interest and attention to her had left him in a foul mood for a while. Not to mention the fact that she could see right through him and knew of his affection for the detective, leaving him feeling terribly exposed. There was a bit of relief now that Sherlock had explained it was solely a mental connection, but then again, it was also awful to be glad about something so juvenile and self-centered when she was _dead_. Not that Sherlock knew; Mycroft wished to avoid telling him, and John couldn't bring himself to say it either. Given all the signs at that point it was very possible that if there ever were anyone, she'd be it; she'd be the one to make Sherlock Holmes want _more_ , and how could he possibly give him the news of her execution if he did indeed...

"She's probably, er, doing well in the States, Irene Adler," he said, aware that Sherlock was still fond of her on some level, and that he himself was too far into the lie to back out now. He watched as his fingers scratched at a spot on the sofa. "On that witness protection scheme."

Sherlock grinned at that. "Mycroft still thinks she's dead, then? Excellent." At John's bewildered look, he elaborated. "I know what he told you. It was the only logical conclusion, really. He believed her to be dead, and enlisted your help to 'break the news to me', as it were. You, being the man you are, thought it kinder to tell me she had managed to work out a deal. While I admit I don't know where she is now, Irene Adler is still very much alive. Or she was at the time, anyway. I took the liberty of helping her out of that beheading. Repaying a debt, as she's the one who convinced Moriarty to rethink his plans at the pool." He narrowed his eyes at John, reading his minute facial expressions and realising...

"You're jealous of her," he concluded with a bit of surprise. "You consider her to be your competition." His eyes flickered again. "And you think I pulled my feet away because I didn't enjoy it." After a beat, he nudged his foot back into John's palm. "On the contrary," he said with a small smile.

"I-oh never mind," John grumbled, shaking his head. He huffed sharply in disbelief, reeling both from the news, Sherlock's very accurate deduction, and his own embarrassment. "Why do I even try..." he whispered, dragging out the words as he playfully yanked Sherlock's foot back to his lap. John picked up where he had left off, thoroughly rubbing down Sherlock's foot and repeating the motion on his other one for a few minutes before clambering up Sherlock and hovering over him. "Well, I could go the rest of my life without seeing her again, but on the off chance that we ever do, I am going to rub this in her face, and I won't mind it one bit." John bent down to kiss him deep, his lips then moving to quickly kiss along his jawline. "Mine, mine I tell you," he growled, nipping lightly at the skin.

"Mm..." Sherlock murmured happily, arching into John's mouth. His legs spread to bracket John's body. "I'm certainly not complaining," he chuckled. His hands ran down the expanse of John's back, sliding under his shirt to smooth over bare skin. He pressed his rapidly hardening erection into John's hips, his breath stuttering. "She hasn't got a thing on you, John. No one does. It's you, only you." Sherlock lifted John's head to press their lips together. He kissed him fiercely, using it as an outlet for all the stress and doubt and confusion of the morning. His mind flashed to the lubrication in the bedroom, and he inhaled sharply, pulling away from John's lips.

"John, I... I was wondering..." He swallowed painfully, trying to claw his way out of the haze of lust. "We don't have to do this now, but I... I was wondering if you might someday want to..." His hand slid down slowly to grasp a handful of John's arse. "I enjoy it," he said in a rush, "And I thought... I don't know..." Sherlock lost his nerve, his hand coming back up to grip John's shirt. "Never mind," he muttered, leaning back up to kiss John again.

John lips pressed back against Sherlock's, but his eyes remained open, mind racing as he caught on. He thought it over, eventually giving a small sigh and sitting back, watching as his thumbs ran over Sherlock's clothed hipbones. "Yeah, er...," he breathed, his brows furrowing, "I know that I offered that our first time...in case you would have preferred it. Christ, I would have done anything for you that night, Sherlock, still will, and God knows that if ever I'd be comfortable with... _that_ , it'd only be with you, but..." He brought his pensive eyes back up to Sherlock's, lightly clenching his jaw. "I had a lot of control taken from me this morning, and as much as I want to experience that with you, and I do, I'm a bit worried that if I give up any more I might shut down on you in the middle of it, and I don't want that. I just can't right now," he said heavily, "not right this second anyway. Maybe once I'm feeling a bit more...I don't know."

Sherlock nodded frantically, pulling John in for a softer kiss. "Fine. It's fine. It's all fine," he assured him. "I was just... wondering. I hadn't thought you would want it now, I..." He took a deep breath and tried to formulate proper sentences. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have suggested that right now. It's a bad time." John's chest was deliciously warm under his palm, and he stroked appreciatively, giving him a small smile. "I wasn't going to push. I was just... curious, I suppose. As to whether or not that's something you would be interested. Someday. Not now. It's _fine_ ," he reiterated once more before nuzzling John's temple and wrapping his arms around his waist, stroking up his back.

John dropped himself flush against Sherlock and wriggled until he was nestled into his side, fingers of one hand lightly tracing patterns into his shoulder. "I love you," he murmured, appreciative of his understanding. "And God I'm sorry about _this_." He brought his hand down Sherlock's chest and stomach, running his middle finger over Sherlock's still noticeable erection. "Got you a little fired up there," he said with a small huff.

Sherlock flushed red. "Don't worry about it," he replied dismissively, even as his spine ached with the desire to buck into that light pressure. "I'm sure it'll go away if I ignore it. Or I'll take care of it later. Or something." He shot John a smile and melted against his side, subtly crossing his legs to make the tenting less horrifyingly obvious. "So!" he began brightly, grasping for a change of subject. "Everything go smoothly today? It didn't sound as though you had any more... incidents."

"Wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," John said, sliding his hand to Sherlock's waist, not wanting to embarrass him further and in a jumble himself as to whether or not getting Sherlock off, or any sort of sex in general was also a no-go for him right now. He had managed to will his own stirrings away, but Sherlock was still fairly new to all this, and very, very responsive. And God, John would be lying if he said he didn't _love it_ , and it made him hate everything all over again. Had things been different this morning, they could have spent _hours_ in bed exploring that. Bugger.

"Mary was actually very civil," he grumbled, before taking note and smoothing out the edge to his voice. "The appointment went well. For the most part anyway, just some minor hiccups, but..." He went silent for a long while, tugging lightly at Sherlock's shirt. "Do I come off as someone that can't handle honesty?" he asked quietly. "I'm just saying because people tend to keep things from me, and that's not really a jab at you, it just seems to happen in my case quite a bit. There's something going on with her, Mary, I can see that, but whatever it is, she won't tell me. Not that she has to, I just...I get the feeling she's not okay. Maybe this is all sinking in and it's affecting her more than she originally let on, I don't know. She also had a bit of a rough time with the story breaking this morning too, and it didn't help that we were practically stared down. At least we weren't approached by anyone, God knows what I would have done," he mumbled.

Sherlock bit his lips and kept quiet. It seemed as though Mary had been trying to work up the nerve to take Sherlock's advice. She hadn't yet, obviously, but she had left John suspicious now. It wasn't Sherlock's place to tell him off Mary's past. However, there was the likely possibility that John would be angry with _him_  once he found out. Mary was sure to tell him that Sherlock had figured it out. And Sherlock couldn't even ask her not to. How could he ask her any favours when he had removed John Watson from her future? And even if she didn't tell him, John wasn't an idiot. He would eventually realise that Sherlock knew, and deliberately kept it from him. But what could he _do_? It wasn't his secret to tell. And if he told John _that_ , John would go bursting over there to demand the truth, and Sherlock would have as good as told him. So John would be angry that he had lied, that he had kept his findings from him, fuelled by the anger with Mary and the memory of the last time Sherlock had lied to him. Angry enough to leave? Sherlock clamped down on that thought immediately. He resumed his stroking of John's arm, weighing his options and finding himself no closer to a solution as they lay there in silence.

John's eyes narrowed slightly as he thought it all over, and for a minute or two he didn't even realize he hadn't received a response. "Hey," John finally murmured, his face softening as he looked up at Sherlock and gently kissed the corner of his mouth. "You checked out on me there, you okay? Sherlock, it's not anything I want you worrying about, honestly, I'm probably just being paranoid. That's all I seem to be lately, would make sense," he huffed awkwardly for comfort, Sherlock's continued silence setting off a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "If she wants to talk to me, she'll talk to me," he said firmly, nodding, more to convince himself than Sherlock. "Baby's fine, and Mary probably just needs time like I do. Not any reason for _you_  to worry though..."

"I'm not worried," Sherlock answered, a bit too quickly. He bit his tongue. "I just... ah..." God, what was he supposed to _do_? He exhaled deeply. "Okay. If... If there were something I knew that would greatly affect you, but it wasn't my secret to tell, what would you propose I do?" he asked tentatively. "Please keep your own curiosities out of this and help me, because I am honestly trying to do the right thing and you are the only person I can ask about these things. I want to tell you, I don't want you to be angry that I didn't when you eventually find out, but it's not a secret that's my business to share." Sherlock had buried his face deeper into John's hair as he spoke, not wanting to look John directly in the eye lest he realise everything anyway. "What would you suggest?"

John's jaw tightly clenched and his pulse sped up. He didn't understand. Everything in him wanted to demand clarification, wanted an answer, wanted to fucking know whatever the hell Sherlock clearly did, but he was so _tired_ , so damn tired of having the rug pulled out from under him. He knew how destructive bottling up his emotions could be; the added sting of Sherlock's intent omission also bound to pick at him and pick at him, but he also knew he wouldn't be able to handle whatever it was with Mary in his current state. He _knew_  that. "Just answer me this," John started pointedly, trying to keep his voice level. "Is Mary in trouble, is she in danger? Are we in danger? Because if not, I don't want to know. Not now, not today," he sharply breathed.

"No," Sherlock replied earnestly. "No one is in any immediate danger. Well, none that I am aware of, anyway." He tugged John gently to meet his gaze. "We're not in danger, but I do think you should make it clear to Mary that she can talk to you about it. Not now, but soon. It'll be better for everyone to have it out in the open." Christ, he'd buggered it up, hadn't he? John had been so close to finally relaxing, getting over the horrible morning, and now... "I'm sorry. Try to forget it, please," Sherlock pleaded gently, brushing kisses across John's hairline. "Don't let it bother you. I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry."

"Don't let it bother me," John sarcastically whispered, starting to get a little more irritated and moving to bury his face against Sherlock's upper arm. "The woman I nearly made my wife would rather go to you about something that could concern _me_  than to just bloody talk to me. The baby's not yours, is it?" he quipped, unable to keep that one from flying, even as his head shook from the absolute ridiculousness of the statement.

"No, it's not," Sherlock replied quietly. "Don't be absurd." His instincts longed to fight back, snap back. It's what he had always done when confronted like this. But this was John, and John was angry and hurt and confused and trying to start a fight. If Sherlock fought back, both of them would end up regretting it. "And she didn't _tell_  me. I realised it when we went back to pack your things. Trust me, I persuaded her to tell you. I swear I did. And she promised to tell you on her own time. If it were anyone else, I would have ignored her and told you anyway." He raised a tentative hand to John's hair in an effort to soothe him. "But I felt like I owed her. She was there for you when I couldn't be, when you were in terrible pain. Pain that I caused. Pain I seem to cause everyone," he muttered a bit bitterly. "Pain I've caused her by sweeping back into your life and stealing you away. No matter the secret, unless it put any of us in immediate harm, how could I deny her after that?" God, all this bloody _bitterness_  wafting around the room was suffocating. At least it had effectively killed his erection.

Sherlock wasn't biting, instead deflecting his own frustration onto himself and with that, John didn't want to play anymore. He gave a long, agitated groan, the sound muffled by Sherlock's arm. As it left him he stilled, focusing his attention on just breathing. "Do you see it?" he said minutes later, after he had calmed enough to resume speaking. "Do you see why we need to get the hell out of here for awhile? We're a mess."

"Cabin fever," Sherlock agreed. He thought over John's words and realized perhaps he didn't just mean out of the flat. "What if we... went on holiday?" he suggested. "You're already in the mindspace for it, as you've had your sex holiday planned for a month. Not that I'm suggesting we go on your honeymoon," he amended quickly. Even he knew that was beyond tactless. "But Mycroft's got a house in the country he'd surely let us borrow for a week or so. Very discreet, very private. Or I could take a case out of the country. Something simple, just an excuse to have our expenses paid for in advance. Or perhaps we could go back to the inn at Baskerville. Or..." He tried to think of other places normal people went on holiday, but his mind was drawing a blank. "...something," he finished lamely.

John couldn't help but snort at Sherlock's choice phrase for honeymoon, the simple action dissipating a bit of the heaviness weighing over him. "Jesus Sherlock...and yeah, I was thinking of that earlier, but at that point I wasn't sure it'd do us any good. The more the day goes on though, the more I think we need to. Maybe within the next few days if we can manage it, though I already asked for this week off at the surgery when Mary told me she was pregnant. Not sure they'll give me another one right after, but I can ask. Honestly, any one of those sounds lovely, we'll narrow it down and flip a coin if we need to, but we should just _go_. Get out and go as soon as possible. And we can start by getting on with that date tonight. Speaking of which, I need to make a phone call," John said, pulling himself off of Sherlock and nearly rolling off the sofa in the process. Once safely on his feet he retreated to the bedroom, returning a little less than five minutes later. "Alright, your brother was able to get us in, we'll go to this one place and then dinner, and it might be a bit fancier than casual dress, not too sure on that," he said, scratching at the side of his face with his index finger. "Won't be a problem for you, you always look nice, I'll just have to figure out what the hell to wear.

"Ugh, you got help from _Mycroft_?" Sherlock asked with a dramatic groan, throwing his arm over his eyes. However, a small smile pulled at the corners of his lips. "Don't worry about your suit. You clean up quite nicely when you put the effort into it. Trust me." He peeked out from underneath his arm and gave a small grin, his eyes sparkling in mirth. "You really want to go through with this. You're _determined_  to be okay with this, with them. Aren't you?" He stood gracefully from the sofa and kissed John's temple on the way to the loo. I'd best go get ready, then," he said with a hint of fondness softening his annoyed features. As he closed the door to the toilet, he called backwards, "That blue dress shirt you think is too tight. It's not." With that, he disappeared behind the door.

The corner of John's mouth slowly curled as he watched Sherlock leave. He had indeed been considering tossing that shirt, he rarely wore it because it did fit pretty tight now. He'd bought it several months after Sherlock fell, back when he was thinner from significantly decreased appetite, but between living with Mary and Sherlock's return he had put on a bit more weight, a bit more muscle, and now it was reminiscent of something Sherlock would wear. The detective pulled that look off far better, John felt, but he chuckled regardless. He thought to the night ahead, his gaze falling a bit, and he moved over to the window, pulling aside the curtain a bit to look out onto the street below. It wasn't abnormally full, there was no lingering crowd in front of 221. John desperately hoped that tonight went by without a hitch, especially because this was something he intensely wanted and needed, for both Sherlock and himself. Was he rushing it a bit? Probably. Logically he should probably give it a few days and let things die down a bit before publicly trying a night out. Also get more comfortable with the idea that people would be seeing him with Sherlock, knowing exactly what they truly were to each other. But it was so important for him to get them out of here, to refuse staying cooped up, to take a bit of control back. To properly take his boyfriend out like he would have done for Mary or any other girlfriend. To stop letting his own fears rule him. Contacting Mycroft had given him some peace of mind; he'd gotten them private sections on short notice, and his people would be watching out for them tonight. It felt ridiculous, having to go through all that trouble just to simply take Sherlock out on a bloody _date_ , but he wasn't going to risk anything happening, or them being mobbed. He finally stepped away from the window, trying to will away anything else but the fact that he wanted to enjoy this. John left the room to begin getting ready himself, and they spent the remainder of the time doing so. When they were finally finished, suits on, his short hair smoothed and neat, Sherlock looking and smelling far, far too _good_ , he took his hand and led them downstairs. They ran into Mrs. Hudson in the foyer, and were held up for a few minutes as she demanded a photo of her boys looking so handsome. John burst into laughter at Sherlock's awkward smile, and finally pulled him along, calling back to Mrs. Hudson that he'd talk to her later about everything. He kissed Sherlock briefly before they exited the building, his eyes scanning the darkening street as he inhaled deep. They got a cab relatively quickly, and John gave an address before looking to Sherlock, noting with relief that the cabbie was paying little attention to them. "The Philharmonic," he said a bit extraneously, as Sherlock was likely to deduce so from the address. "I haven't been since I was a kid, but I thought you might like going."

Sherlock stared in shock. He hadn't been since he was quite young either, but... "I love it," he replied in shock. "My parents used to take me when I was younger, but it bored Mycroft to tears. We stopped going when I was sixteen. But I adored it. It made me want to play the violin," he admitted softly. "But I never went back after that." What Sherlock didn't mention was that soon after had been the drugs, and then cases. He'd never even thought about going back to the gorgeous music hall he'd fallen in love with so long ago. For John to somehow know what this would mean to him, when Sherlock hadn't even considered it, was overwhelming. To say the least. Overcome with happiness and love for this brilliant man, Sherlock leaned in to kiss John fiercely, only to stop himself with a harsh jerk. He swallowed hard and leaned back in his seat, staring forward. Tentatively, his hand slipped over to grip John's. Low, where the cabbie wouldn't see it. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice choked with emotion.

John watched everything play out over Sherlock's face, and it was _beautiful_. He wanted to kiss him. God, he wanted to kiss him. But there was an outsider and Sherlock had caught himself, pulling back out of respect for John. It was very reassuring, but John also recognized that this could be a whole lot harder than he thought, containing himself when they were still so early into their finally formed relationship; Sherlock having to follow suit all for his sake. But he couldn't have it both ways, he knew that, and the alternative was something he was going to have to work up to, so he settled for spreading his fingers out under Sherlock's, squeezing around him, keeping his hand there. He smiled warmly at him before facing the front as well. The ride wasn't terribly long even with traffic, and they kept conversation light for the eighteen or so minutes it took to get there. "Try to keep you head down," John finally whispered in Sherlock's direction, once they were pulling up to the building. "Someone's going to meet us out there and take us in." He paid for the ride once they came to a complete stop and stepped out, Sherlock following behind. They were approached and quietly greeted almost immediately by an employee, and were led in and taken up by lift to a private box, no one else in their immediate vicinity. They could still be seen from down below, or from some of the other boxes, but at that height and from across the hall, it'd be difficult to recognize them. This gave John a chance to loosen up a bit, and once they were left alone he moved to lean over the rails, looking out all over the grand hall. "They've done some amazing things to this place," he said in awe, the orchestra tuning and warming up on stage. "It's gorgeous."

Sherlock had to agree, staring up at the gorgeous private box. He ran his fingers over the cool metal of the rail and breathed in the familiar smell of polished wood and velvet and instruments. The orchestra was currently tuning, the sound already music to Sherlock's starving ears. John had done this. John had wanted to make him happy, and brought him back to the music. After a quick sweep of his eyes, ascertaining their isolation in the box, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and tugged them to the small alcove near the entrance to the private box. He pressed John to the wall and kissed John deeply, achingly. The way he'd wanted to in the cab, the way he'd felt when he'd seen the box. When he'd heard the orchestra, and felt it deep in his bones. He tipped John's head back and thanked him as best he could without words, as he couldn't think of a single one.

John's hands weaved along Sherlock's, slowly sliding up his chest to rest on his neck. There was a lot in that kiss, and he was slightly winded at the end of it, blinking repeatedly to refocus himself. "Right," he said quietly once he could manage speech again, "so what you're saying is, I need to bring you here as often as possible." He chuckled and smiled brightly up at him for several seconds before pulling him back for another lengthy kiss. "I really hoped that you'd like it...I'm glad you do." Things began to quiet down below and his hands fell to Sherlock's shoulders, gently squeezing as the lights around the auditorium started to dim. "Got some damn good seats," he said with a grin, cocking his head towards the front of the box. "Might as well go get comfortable. C'mon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally, finally got around to posting an update, sorry guys! The next one should be up a bit quicker; we're quite a ways into that one. :)


	9. Chapter 9

Halfway through the performance, Sherlock was practically trembling in his seat. Music did something to him, always had, and John's hand discreetly held in his own enhanced the experience tenfold. Every so often, he'd lean over and whisper comments and bits of trivia into John's ear. And John didn't seem to mind it. Mummy and Dad had always shushed him during the performances when he wanted to say something about it, and Mycroft had simply tuned him out completely. But John would listen attentively, nodding along and smiling when Sherlock told him something particularly interesting. By intermission, he was buzzing with adrenaline, turning to grin broadly at John.

"How do you like it so far?" he asked, subduing his voice to sound less like an overexcited puppy. He untangled their hands as the lights came on.

"It's nice," John said lowly as his eyes drifted over Sherlock's face, completely infatuated with his excitement. "Think I prefer you playing though." He gave a gentle smile and winked at him before looking back out into the hall, humming in thought. "Did you know, I used to play the clarinet in school. Forever ago. Was actually quite good, but my teacher was a tosser and the girls didn't seem to find it very attractive...in the end I gave it up for rugby, which I liked, but still. Should have kept at it, at least on my own. I haven't picked one up in so long, would barely even know what to do with it now," he said with a wistful chuckle.

"I know a man at the music shop nearby," Sherlock replied instantly, almost too eagerly. "He doesn't owe me a favour, nothing like that, but I'm in there quite often for supplies. I'm sure he could get me a nice enough clarinet if I asked him about it. Do you know how many violin/clarinet duets there _are_  out there?" Truthfully, Sherlock had no idea. But there had to exist some _somewhere_ , didn't there? He couldn't get the idea out of his mind, being able to play his precious violin and looking over and seeing John being part of the music. His lips wrapped around the reed like... Bugger. John was a terrible influence on him. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I'll see what I can do. You listen to me play all the time, it's only fair I'm allowed the privilege of hearing you play as well." He smiled, spotting the bottle on a tray near the door that most certainly hadn't been there when the lights had first gone out for the first act. "It seems my brother has taken it upon himself to send us something else for the evening," he quipped dryly, holding up the no doubt garishly expensive bottle. Ah well. Waste not, want not. "Champagne?"

"Yeah, I'd love some," John said, watching as Sherlock gracefully opened the bottle and began to pour the glasses. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "us and Mary may not have been the only ones spooked this morning. Mycroft was very quick to get those people out of there, and to help me when I asked. I feel a bit like he's just really trying to make sure we're okay. You and me. Look, I won't ruin tonight by talking too much good about your brother, but I will say that he really cares about you." He pursed his lips and lightly nodded at Sherlock before looking down and smiling at his glass. "And you may have to put a few more drinks in me before I even _think_  about playing in front of you right away. It's been ages, I'm bound to be awful." He gently clinked his glass against Sherlock's and rose it to his lips. "But I'd really like if you'd talk to the guy at the shop," he quickly whispered, almost inaudibly. "Just to...ask." 

Sherlock grinned, already planning on taking a trip to the music shop as soon as possible. "Just to ask," he agreed with a smirk, raising his own glass to take a sip. "Naturally." He glanced down towards the stage. "I wanted to do this, you know. When I grew up. Always fancied the idea of running away to travel with the London Philharmonic." He smiled. "I almost did it, too. But Mycroft convinced Mummy that it wasn't just a whim. That I'd actually do it, given the chance. She cancelled my lessons for a week. So I put frogs in Mycroft's bed." He took another sip of champagne, chuckling at the memory. John had been right...This was good for them. He felt utterly relaxed, simmering pleasantly with alcohol and music and the sight of John all dressed up. He'd seen John clean up for dates before, but it was immeasurably satisfying that he was doing it for _him_. And only him from now on, if he had anything to say about it. "Thank you for this. Really. I never would have thought of this, but it's perfect. Thank you."

John gave a proud smile, his grin impossibly wide as he downed some more of his bubbling champagne. "Thank _you_  for agreeing to come out with me." He marveled at how _easy_  this all felt right now; he didn't know if the cause was simply the drink or his blatant euphoria at being able to just breathe a bit. Maybe a combination of both. Whatever it was, he liked it. Very much. It made him feel a bit braver, and when the lights eventually went low once more and they settled in for the second act, John slid his arm around the back of Sherlock's seat, his thumb distractedly brushing against the man's ear and down the column of his neck as he listened to the resounding harmony in the hall. He got chills several times throughout the remaining half of the performance, and when the very last note was played and the hall went utterly silent, he turned to look at Sherlock, mouth slightly gaping in complete reverence. The place went loud with applause, and he grinned and stood with Sherlock to offer their appreciation. When it finally began to settle down and the people on the lower level and balcony began to disperse, John slowly walked with Sherlock to the box's entrance, their upper arms occasionally nudging against each other, his hands idly resting within his pockets. Before they went out he stopped and hummed low, reaching up to kiss slowly at a spot near his boyfriend's ear. He couldn't linger for too long; there would be someone wating nearby to escort them, and in the following minutes they were safely walked out of the building and placed back within a cab. John thought ahead to their next stop, comforted by their recent success, however annoying it was being looked after. At least they had been given some privacy. He wasn't terribly familiar with the area they were headed to, that cluster of fancy restaurants downtown. He'd only been to one of them before, and that was where he had nearly proposed to Mary, and also nearly murdered Sherlock upon his insensitive reveal. John could almost laugh about it now, they were past all that, but still, he'd never walk in there again. Too many memories, and technically they weren't even allowed to, what with him knocking Sherlock to the ground and having to be yanked off, and the git falsely posing as wait staff. "Dinner," he said with a small huff and a shake of his head, settling back in his seat; Sherlock and him sitting much closer now. "It's supposed to be really nice, where we're going."

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows raised in surprise. The concert had been one thing, sitting alone in a private box in a darkened theatre. He'd quite enjoyed the feel of John's fingers on his neck, brushing over the goosepimples caused by the tremulous music— and causing a few of their own. But to be out to a romantic dinner (at an overly posh establishment, if Mycroft had anything to do with it) was quite another thing. They'd been out to dinner together countless times before, obviously. But after the debacle that had occurred _just that morning_... Sherlock wondered if John was thinking clearly. He appreciated the gesture, but _really_.

"John," he began firmly, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "I love you. Tonight has been indescribably lovely. We don't need to go to dinner to finish it off. There is every chance someone will recognise us. It's tempting fate a bit, and I don't want anything to happen to upset you." He gave John a shy smile and laid their hands on John's thigh, stroking softly with his thumb. "We don't need to do this. I'm perfectly content ordering takeaway and picking up a nice bottle of wine to take home. You've done so much for me tonight. I want to go to dinner with you and show you off to the world, but give it time. Wait until you're ready. There's no rush." He nudged John's knee with his own.

John stared at him, listening intently then sighing when Sherlock had finished. He _was_  pushing himself, he knew that on some level, and apparently Sherlock did too, given his concern. "I just really want this to be okay, and I want it okay right now. A bit reckless or not, it's a far cry from helpless." He sagged against Sherlock's side, his gaze falling to their joined hands in his lap. "Yes I'm rushing. I want to forget, and I want to fix everything, and I don't know how else to do it. But you're right," he admitted with a weak shrug of his shoulders, "I'm not ready." John expelled air from his lips then went silent for a short while, watching as Sherlock's thumb reassuringly brushed against his skin. "Hmm," he softly hummed after a moment, finally looking up at Sherlock and giving a small smile. "We did have a good time, didn't we? I'd very much like to continue that...let's just go home."

Sherlock felt awful. John had looked so excited, so hopeful at the idea of a real dinner date. And Sherlock wanted to give that to him. God, he wanted to give him anything he wanted. But he knew that if anyone recognised them, it would destroy every good part of the entire evening. And Sherlock would die before he let some arsehole ruin tonight this memory for him and John. Not on his first date. "Baker Street," he told the cabbie, pulling John tighter against his side. With a sudden smirk, he leaned in to murmur in John's ear. "Besides, I'd like to get you home so I can thank you properly. I've been trying not to kiss you all night and it's been very... _very_... hard." With that, he huffed a breathy laugh quite deliberately against the skin of John's throat and drew himself away with the barest brush of lips to the skin.

" _Oh, you are a bad man_ ," John slowly growled as his resultant tremor shot straight down to his groin. He bore into Sherlock, his eyes sharp in a fixed glare, a calm, diabolical grin on his face. "You better stop that," he lightly warned as he moved to text Mycroft of their cancellation. "I'll tell your brother what you just said. That his hard work was for nothing because all _you_  wanted to do was go snog." 

The resultant gleam in Sherlock's eyes was worrying. He grinned wickedly. "Even better. Telling him we're leaving early to shag like rabbits at the flat. See if that vein in his temple finally bursts." His eyes roved approvingly up and down John's form. "Have I mentioned how gorgeous you look tonight? You ought to dress like this more often. Burn those dreadful woollen things in our closet. They're hideous."

"I _like_  them," John firmly countered, grinning as he finished his text, (pointedly omitting Sherlock's suggestion) and sent it off. "They're cozy. You may have been able to badger me into shaving my face, but you're not winning this one. Sorry." He held the phone down in his lap, seeking out Sherlock's hand once more with his other. "But thank you," he said, nudging Sherlock's shoulder with his own. "Really goes without saying, but you look very nice tonight too. God, you always do. _Too, too good._  It's a bit distracting."

"You may be a bit biased," Sherlock pointed out, his ears flushing in pleasure all the same. He pulled out his mobile and called their favourtie takeaway place. "So we won't need to waste too much time before I can get my hands on you," Sherlock explained with a wink as he held the phone to his ear. Once the order was placed, Sherlock looked towards John and was relieved to see no trace of the stress that had permeated the air around him all day. He was relaxed and open, drunk on music and champagne and Sherlock, apparently. He wasn't even being careful around the cabbie, not subtle at all in the way he leaned against Sherlock's side. Sherlock decided to press his luck and take advantage of the moment. He slid down in his seat a bit until he was short enough to rest his head against John's shoulder, curls pressed into the crook of his neck. "All right?" he asked in a quiet voice, already prepared to go back to his original position the second John asked him to.

"Yeah," John whispered, turning his head and firmly kissing into Sherlock's hair. "Yeah, it's all right." And right now, he felt he meant it. With a small smile to himself, he let go of Sherlock's hand to loosely hold him against his side, his fingers lightly tapping out the tune on the radio as they drove on. John felt far too content like this, and it took him a few seconds to even acknowledge when the cab finally did come to a complete stop. Only then did he relinquish his position, taking Sherlock out with him onto the street. The takeaway was likely only minutes behind them, but John figured they could go up to get a head start on setting the table. Safely inside the building and halfway up the steps to their flat however, he paused and lightly pulled Sherlock to him, seeking out his lips and softly kissing him. He pulled back just an inch to smile at him, dropping his gaze for a second then sincerely facing him one more. "Today wasn't easy for me," John finally got out after a few false starts. "Or for you. But when we go in there, I don't want us thinking about any of that. Because we're not right now, I feel good, you feel good, and we have every right to just enjoy each other. We fucking deserve this," he said with a breathy laugh.

Sherlock nodded in agreement, running his nose along John's cheek. "Okay," he murmured. With a lazy smile, he grabbed John's hand and pulled him up the rest of the stairs before Mrs. Hudson could spot them and interrupt. Once safely ensconced in the warmth of their flat, he tugged John into a proper kiss, running appreciative fingers over the line of his arms and shoulders in the nice suit. "I'm going to buy you another suit," he informed him breathily. "I'm going to buy you lots and lots of proper suits, and toss all your jumpers out the window." He grinned, knowing it was an empty threat. He did so love every single one of John's hideous jumpers. He mouthed wetly at his throat, angling his hips just slightly to keep from pressing against John so as not to push him into anything to quickly. Sherlock was getting quite annoyed with his suddenly overactive libido. It had never been such a nuisance before. For God's sakes, he'd gone thirty-seven years without this kind of interference from his bloody cock. But it was just transport. He could control it if he _concentrated_.

John smiled and gave a rumbling hum at Sherlock's attention, giving it a few seconds before lifting Sherlock's face and kissing him deeply. He slowly pulled back, his fingers brushing against Sherlock's as he walked away and went about pulling the necessary items from cabinets. Sherlock cleared up a bit of the clutter on the table as John set up, and he stood back once finished, biting at his thumb in thought. "Mmm," he murmured to himself, randomly disappearing from the kitchen for a bit and returning with several small candles in his hands. "I like them when I take baths," John said sheepishly, placing them down and arranging them around a few of Sherlock's beakers and his microscope. Technically they could have cleared those items off the center of the table, but John liked the contrast. Felt like home, felt like _them_. "Also, seeing as how I _am_  your date this time, a candle or two is appropriate," he said, smiling fondly at Sherlock. He found a box of matches and lit each candle, leaving them in the soft, dim lighting as he shut off the light switch. John was pleased with the result, and he slowly came up behind Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him, pressing the side of his face against the man's upper arm. "You know, this right here is nicer than any place we could have gone. Good call."

"You're ridiculous," Sherlock snorted, though secretly thrilled by the romantic gesture. "We're having takeaway. On plates, if we're feeling terribly ambitious." Nevertheless, he curved into John's embrace, enjoying the dim glow of the candles and the soft way it flickered in the reflections of his lab equipment. "I am sorry about dinner," he apologised quietly. I won't go into it too much, but you looked so pleased at the idea of it. I hated ruining that." He smiled at the table. "Although I suppose you're right... This does have quite the domestic quality to it. I'd much prefer to have takeaway and Tesco wine here at home than go to any posh restaurant Mycroft could possibly recommend." He twisted in John's arms to kiss him properly as the doorbell rang downstairs. Sherlock smiled. "You can get the food. I'll uncork the wine." He pressed a giddy, smacking kiss to John's forehead and dug around the shopping bags left from earlier for the half-decent bottle of red he'd purchased. 

John smiled contentedly, feeling light as he headed downstairs to retrieve their dinner. There was a minor flare of relief at it indeed being the takeaway on the other end of the front door, and he pulled out his wallet for the exchange.

"Oi, I hoped it was one of you," the driver, a young thing who couldn't be older than seventeen, blurted as he handed John the bag. "Address and all. Wait till I tell my-"

John used his free hand to close the door on him, then just stood still with his bag in the foyer, giving a sharp nod before making his way back upstairs. Once back in the kitchen he set the bag on the table, Sherlock having just finished pouring the wine and setting the glasses down. John took the opportunity, turning Sherlock around and crowding him up against the edge of the table, kissing him fiercely. "I love you," John said pointedly, shaking his head in reverence. "I want you to hear it, I want you to hear it as much as you can."

Sherlock "Mmpf"d into the sudden kiss, bracing himself carefully against the table so as not to spill the wine. "I... I love you too," he replied dazedly. He swayed a bit on his feet. "Not that I'm complaining, but was there a reason for that... erm... intensity?"

"Nah, just had a run-in downstairs, some poor sod a little too excited to be doing his job, but I wasn't terribly bothered and that felt good. Also I love you and you're fucking gorgeous. It's very difficult keeping to myself," he laughed. "I've really got nothing to complain about. Because none of _that_ ," he said, lazily pointing below them, "is here right now. No, I've got low lighting, and wine, and dinner, and my extremely clever, ridiculously sexy boyfriend," he drawled, his eyes drifting to that extra open button on Sherlock's dress shirt, to that pale bit of exposed chest. He always wore his shirts like that; very, very distracting. "Right, let's eat," he said quietly, staring. "Before I, uh...yeah."

"We can eat later," Sherlock growled, dipping back down for another fierce kiss. Forgetting all sense of caution, he gripped John's hips and pulled them flush against each other. God. After an exhausting day of trying to suppress every bit of arousal, Sherlock was unable to stop the dam from breaking apart in a colossal tidal wave of aching _want_. And unlike the other various incidents during the day, he was unable to keep himself from responding. Before he fully understood what was happening, Sherlock found himself rutting desperately at John's hip. It was thoroughly embarrassing to think of himself reduced to such a state after just a bit of snogging, and was enough to momentarily snap himself out of the overwhelming haze of lust. He broke away sharply and buried his face in John's shoulder. His hips stilled immediately, tensed with restraint. "Sorry," he gasped with heaving breaths. "I didn't think... I didn't mean to push. I'm sorry. We should eat. Or something." For perhaps the hundredth time that day, Sherlock counted to twenty in his head to calm his arousal, to will his aching erection away. Christ, he hoped the constant arousal was a virgin thing that would pass eventually. It was pathetic.

"You're not pushing. I want it too," John breathed, thickly swallowing. He ground his swelling erection up and against the man's once to encourage him, the action causing a quiet, shaky gasp to slip from him and into Sherlock's hair. "It's okay. I promise, it's okay." His hands moved to slowly pull Sherlock's shirt from his trousers, lifting it up to firmly slide his hands around the skin of his waist. "I don't think we're going to get through dinner," John whispered lowly, resolutely. "And that's okay. It's not going anywhere. Toss it in the fridge, reheat it later. We'll actually probably be a whole lot hungrier...God, I'm sorry, but now that I've got you, I'm not letting you go. This just feels a hell of a lot more dire."

Sherlock shuddered helplessly at the feel of John's fingers on his bare skin. "You seemed hesitant earlier. On the sofa. I assumed you would need more time before we... well." Rational thought was escaping him quickly, and he clutched desperately at the wispy tendrils that remained. Except... why should he? John was a grown man. He wasn't afraid to speak up when he didn't want something. And it wasn't as though they hadn't done this before. _Twice_. And while he had never before seen the point in traditional romantic settings, Sherlock had to admit to the alluring appeal of  the dim flat, luminated by the candles on the table, the glasses of wine, the handsome man pressed against him. All part of their wonderful date. Sherlock's _first_  date. He decided it would be a shame not to take advantage of such a lovely situation. Without another word, he leaned down to reclaim John's lips hungrily, arms wrapping tightly around the pleasing, compact solidness of his body.

John responded enthusiastically, his hands gripping Sherlock and tugging him a foot or two away from the table. There was an enormous sense of relief at finally, _finally_  being able to really let go. He honestly hadn't been sure this morning that he'd feel comfortable being physical for at least a short while. His privacy had been brutally invaded and he felt far too exposed. But the alternative wasn't much better; a full day feeling torn and a bit miserable at having to be so bloody careful, Sherlock having to hold himself back as well. He didn't quite like that either. So the simple fact that they were now _here_ , Sherlock against him and eager, both heedlessly letting their bodies react to each other, Christ, it was so immensely satisfying. It took John a long while before he pulled back, and it was only to assess their situation. He reluctantly broke away to move the takeaway bag into the fridge and then blew out the candles, submerging them in darkness. "Don't know how long we'll be, and I don't want to start any fires," he lowly chuckled as he moved back over to where Sherlock was standing, seeking out his hand and linking their fingers together in the dark. "Bed?" John asked, already lightly pulling at him.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to follow him. His shoulder hit the doorframe as they passed through it, but he ignored the resultant throb. Once inside, Sherlock all but shoved John onto the bed. He felt brilliant. High and mindless with lust. They'd done this twice before, and it hadn't lost its intensity one bit, which pleased Sherlock very much. He shed his suit jacket quickly and crawled over John's sprawled body. "God," he growled, latching onto John's throat and sucking hard, mercilessly leaving his own mark on the warm skin.

For a second John was truly stunned, immobilized by how quickly Sherlock was on him. It felt fucking fantastic, the man working so suddenly and determinedly at his neck and the tingle running down his spine occasionally caused his hips to snap forward. But with Sherlock hovering over him, there was no contact there, nothing for his erection to press against, and a small, frustrated groan left him each time his hips came back down to the mattress. The only reason he hadn't pulled Sherlock flush yet was because of the access it gave him to his clothing, and John finally made use of it amidst his own moans, fingers fumbling to undo Sherlock's belt and pull it from his trousers. He tossed it off the side of the bed, his hands returning to Sherlock and slipping under his shirt, both palms running up the skin, fingernails dragging a fair bit. " _Fuck_ ," he sharply exhaled, Sherlock's tongue warm and wet against him. Tomorrow would definitely be a scarf day, he briefly thought, and a blissful laugh left him as he began to try and undo the lower buttons of Sherlock's expensive shirt.

Sherlock unbuttoned John's shirt as well, nipping at his collarbone and pectorals curiously as each patch of skin was revealed. "Something funny?" he asked roughly, licking at a nipple. He held John's hips to the bed as he worked on the skin. He had been too dazed and surprised the first time to do this, and then too overwhelmed the second time... He wanted to taste John. Preferably all over, provided neither of them came too quickly. He wanted to lick and bite and sample and taste any part that John would let him. He didn't want there to be any part of John he wasn't able to identify in a crowd, if not by sight alone, then by taste and smell and touch and any other sense he possessed. He ripped the rest of John's shirt away from his chest and began to do so with an onslaught of single-minded determination.

"Yeah," John huffed, although it quickly faded into a groan as Sherlock's lips ran down his chest. "I'm going back to work in a few days, I can't even see what you left on me, and I can't bring myself to fucking care." He smiled fondly and ran a hand down the top of Sherlock's head, massaging his scalp, just watching him for a while. Sherlock was doing his thing, cataloguing apparently, his mouth moving very deliberately over every bare inch of skin. He took his time but there was a pressing, underlying desperation to his actions, and seeing as how John couldn't fully get Sherlock's shirt off with how he was pinning him down, he eventually let his head fall back and raised his arms above his head, stretching out his torso to him, letting Sherlock carry on with whatever the hell it was he was doing in his mind palace. If this was something that Sherlock needed, John was more than willing to give it to him, especially with how _good_  it felt on his end, Sherlock's wet lips dragging at his skin, his deep, warm breaths causing his cock to pulsate within the confines of his trousers. 

Sherlock grinned into the warm softness of John's belly. The man seemed content to let Sherlock take his time, even seemed to understand how much he needed this. He lowered his hands to John's fly and (this time around) popped it open with ease. With a sharp intake of air, Sherlock slid his pants and trousers slowly off of his legs. "Perhaps I should leave marks in less noticeable places," he mused, nosing at the soft skin of his inner thigh. "Places only we'll know about. It'll be our little secret." He flashed John a wicked grin before biting down, none too gently, into that softness. He soothed the bite with his tongue and began sucking rhythmically.

"Owww," John lowly laughed, grinning and biting his lip. "I am going to get you for that one." He lazily nodded, a promise, and slid one arm under his head, wriggling a bit to get more comfortable. "Next time you decide to nick something from Greg make sure it's a pair of handcuffs," he said cheekily. "And I'll punish you properly." He gave a soft amused hum and smiled, then focused back on Sherlock, his face slowly falling into something else entirely. It was so damn _sensual_ , Sherlock between his legs, applying that teasing, wet pressure to such an intimate area and looking like he fucking _craved_ him. John was so enraptured, unable to do little else but stare for a long while. "God, you are _so_  beautiful," he said slowly, the words pointed whispers. He brought his free hand down to gently brush his thumb against Sherlock's temple, marveling at how lucky he was that Sherlock chose _him_. Had Sherlock wanted, he could have had anyone. Even those who were off-put by his regular arrogance and quirks had to admit that he was bloody gorgeous. It worked on cases all the time, John had yet to see Sherlock unable to charm someone into giving him what he wanted or needed. Well, perhaps he was the one exception. Sometimes. John had lived with Sherlock, grown incredibly accustomed to exactly when he was turning it up, those moments in which he would try and lure John into going out to collect the information that he couldn't be bothered with, which John always did, or give him the occasional cigarette, which he never did. Hah. They were so _good_  for each other. 

Sherlock smiled to himself at the hushed compliment. It was odd, but... he felt _sexy_. A word he'd never thought he'd ever apply to himself, but there was no other way to describe it. He _felt_  beautiful and gorgeous and sexy and powerful here between John's legs, making him feel good and cared for and loved. With a last suck to the dark bruise, Sherlock kissed and tasted up each of John's legs. The hair was finer at John's thighs, he noted as he ran his lips over them. His ankles were strong, though his right one was just a bit more built, likely due to the extra strain it bore on days when John's limp flared up. There was a small scar on the inside of John's left calf that seemed to indicate a mildly serious fall when he was a child, probably out of a tree. These small deductions about what made up John in his entirety were fascinating, carefully stored away within his mind palace. Before he'd realised what he was doing, Sherlock had John's legs thrown over his shoulders. His face was buried in the warm crease of John's groin, and he contemplated dipping down to his perineum and... lower. However brief it had been, the feeling of John's mouth in such an intimate area of his body during their first time had felt... He couldn't explain it. But it had been good. Very good. And he wanted very much to do the same for John. Tentatively, questioningly, he flicked his tongue against John's perineum, just barely catching on the rim of John's entrance.

John's body immediately jolted, the hand under him darting out to grab tightly at a pillow as if that would stabilize him. It was surprising, to say the least; when Sherlock had moved his legs he'd anticipated that gorgeous mouth on his cock or his sac, the more obvious outcomes. So when that gifted tongue brushed against him _there_ , it left his mind blank to all else, his mouth silently hanging open, cock twitching in interest and arsehole clenching around the empty air. Being a doctor he was well informed of the thousands of nerve endings to the anal area, he'd even touched himself there occasionally on his own while wanking, but never, never was it something he felt comfortable asking of his partners to do. He was always far too stupidly concerned about how he would be perceived. But Sherlock apparently seemed interested in at least experimenting, and John desperately hoped that was a sign that Sherlock had liked when his mouth was on _him_. He'd been unable to stop himself from kissing him there the first time, and John could only pray that he'd be allowed to properly reciprocate this for Sherlock at some point. Christ, he still had yet to even taste Sherlock's cock, something else he also wanted terribly. He just wanted, and wanted, and wanted so damn much... "Again?" he pleaded, finally closing his mouth and swallowing thickly.

Sherlocks eyes widened. He pulled back just slightly. "Sure?" he asked in a barely audible rumble, his breath puffing out against John's skin as he spoke. Fuck, he was incredibly turned on right now. He'd expected John to gently refuse, perhaps offer they try it some other time. He hadn't expected him to respond so... Christ, his _face_. Sherlock had to close his own eyes for a moment as his own cock throbbed fiercely beneath him, feeling dizzy with arousal. He slid his hands beneath John's arse and spread him wider just slightly, just enough to give himself more room as he licked a bolder stripe along John's heated arsehole. He was fascinated by the way it clenched and relaxed, the way John's heartbeat pulsed under Sherlock's slick tongue. He groaned deeply, pressing harder.

John was truly at Sherlock's mercy here, barely able to arch his back or even press his arse further against him. His eyes grew heavy and dark as Sherlock firmly lapped at him, swirled his tongue, sucked to loosen the puckered skin. He couldn't see what Sherlock was doing, but Christ, even just looking at the top of his curly head was incredibly erotic. The imagery was too much and John alternated his focus, moaning into his arm or watching drops of pre-come slowly collect at the head of his erect penis and drip down to his belly. The sight was relaxing somehow, but it also made it so difficult not to reach down and touch himself while Sherlock was busy elsewhere. But he didn't want to come. He was almost scared to, lest his arousal be a driving factor in how liberated he felt right now. He didn't want to stop feeling like this.

Once the ache in his neck became too distracting, Sherlock decided perhaps a change in position might be wise. He pulled back and buried his face in John's thigh and took a moment to take deep, gasping breaths. He'd never thought John would agree to this, not so soon. Or if he had, Sherlock had expected a few moments of it before John came to his senses and pushed him off. But to be allowed this far... Sherlock pushed himself up John's body, pausing for just a moment on the way to lick a stripe up his leaking erection. Lips were then pressed to John's ear. "Turn over," he murmured in a low rumble. He pressed a kiss to John's throat. "If you want me to continue with that, that is. It's a bit cramped."

Sherlock moving was a bit difficult for John's hazy mind to comprehend, and his eyes fell shut, a sharp tremor coursing through him as heated breath warmed his ear and neck. His stomach clenched in lust but his eyes reopened mere seconds later, Sherlock's words finally registering. John stared past Sherlock's shoulder, the fog in his head clearing a bit as hesitation crept up on him; it was one thing to be facing and at least somewhat visually aware of the amazing things Sherlock was doing to his body, but quite another to move blindly to such a vulnerable position. Which was ridiculous considering that just two nights ago he had asked the same of Sherlock. Asked him to turn over, expose himself, let himself be taken care of. Had Sherlock been nervous? Most likely. Hell, even _he_  had been a bit nervous under his focused exterior, it was just so important to him for Sherlock to feel safe, loved. Surely the same would hold true for Sherlock now? John was also too mindful of his pressing arousal; Sherlock was making him feel so good, could keep making him good, he didn't want to stop...John's gaze fell back to Sherlock, eyes tensely searching his as if he'd find his answer there. He didn't get one, and he wasn't suddenly enlightened, not directly anyway. It was just Sherlock. 

And that was comforting, and more than enough. 

He had trust issues, and most likely would for the rest of his life, but even so he fiercely trusted Sherlock, somehow had from the very first moment they met. It was nothing he could explain, nothing he could put words to; whatever it was it was bigger than the both of them. There was damage now, sure, Sherlock's feigned suicide and withholding had definitely done something to John's psyche, and combined with Mary's dishonesty, whatever the extent, and an incredibly obtrusive public, he felt desperate for control and terribly anxious at any loss of it. But they were moving forward, he was trying to, and even now he somehow still had say in what he did or didn't want. Under Sherlock and far more naked than the other man, he was still in control, Sherlock helping to make sure of that. As chaotic as everything else around him was, Sherlock was still that contradicting anchor, keeping him both satisfied and stable in the same way that John did for him everyday. John grinned to himself at that, and without another word he rose onto his elbows and kissed Sherlock hard, knowing exactly where Sherlock's mouth had just been and not minding one bit. He was finally able to pull Sherlock's shirt off his shoulders and arms, and imagining that he also had to be terribly uncomfortable in his trousers he helped him out of them, ridding any remaining clothing. He felt incredibly heated, eyes trailing down all of Sherlock's firm, nude body, and it felt like a lot of effort to move away onto his stomach and press down against the mattress. He lay flat for a moment before reaching for a pillow to stuff under his hips, carefully bringing his knees up on either side of him. "I want to keep going. If you want to. I'm okay," he assured.

Sherlock stared down, breathless at the sight before him. He understood how difficult this was for John. This was a serious sign of trust, and Sherlock felt dizzy with it. With the control John was handing over. No... with the control he was sharing. They were both in control, and neither of them were. Sherlock normally detested paradoxes, they never made sense to him. But this, this he thought he could handle. Sherlock tentatively lifted his hands to brush over John's exposed backside. He pressed his lips to John's back and began his cataloguing all over again. The muscles in John's back were beautiful. Not for show, no. These muscles were for _use_. John had these because they were useful, they kept him strong and protective. Sherlock was grateful for every muscle in John's body, each one had protected him in some way. He didn't linger on John's scar, not right now. Not when John was already feeling so vulnerable. As he made his way down, going all the way back up his legs again, Sherlock kept his hands on John's arse, his thighs. Kneading them gently to keep John relaxed and pliant as Sherlock explored. He paused as he arrived back at his original target. Ignoring it for the moment, he leaned back up to kiss the nape of John's neck.

"I don't plan on doing... that. Penetration, I mean. Not with anything other than my tongue, anyway," he elaborated with a lick to John's salty skin. "Tell me if you want me to stop and I'll stop, no questions asked." With another small kiss, Sherlock trailed more of them down John's spine. With a deep breath, he began working again on John's entrance. It was strange how enjoyable this was. It should disgust him, and it was true that it wasn't exactly sugar down here, but there was something about how _base_  this was that just... Sherlock couldn't explain it. But he enjoyed the warmth, the pheromones that were emitted in this way. Most of all, he enjoyed the way John reacted. The noises John made, the faces. Like he was bewildered by how pleasurable it was. It made Sherlock feel like he was doing something right. Once he felt John's rim had loosened enough, he shoved his tongue into the tightly furled entrance, not giving John a chance to overthink it.

John softly cried out as the wet appendage suddenly pushed in, and he buried his face into the mattress, fingers gripping for purchase on the bed sheet. It was _bizarre_ , having Sherlock inside him this way, being able to feel his slick tongue moving within him, but he liked it. God he liked it. He gave a low groan and looked back to his side for more air, his panting growing in intensity. Sherlock had kept him so relaxed, comfortable, promised they didn't have to do anything he wasn't ready for, and John felt able to just _feel_ , focus on each sensation, on the warmth spreading throughout his body. He pressed back a bit into that pressure, his hips lightly rutting into the pillow under him. "Ah! Sherlock..." 

Sherlock had to pull away for breath, each breathy noise from John making his heart pound faster in his chest. Gasping desperately for breath, Sherlock rested his head against John's spine and ground down onto the bed. His cock felt ready to burst, and he hadn't even done anything to it yet. "John," his voice cracked. "John, we have to stop. I'm sorry, I need..." His hands gripped at John's hips, his own now grinding helplessly at John's thigh. "Turn over. You have to turn back over. Please."

John's eyes opened a bit at Sherlock's desperate plea, but he remained still, solely because he didn't feel he could _move_. His legs had grown accustomed to the position, and any shift was bound to make him feel just how far of a stretch it was. There was also the matter of Sherlock's cock behind him, warm, solid and leaking against his skin, and John's own intense arousal was pushing boundaries, making him start to second-guess himself. With a few deep breaths and a bit of effort however, John managed to slowly maneuver himself under Sherlock's grip. He blinked up at Sherlock for focus once he was on his back, noticing how hard the man was panting.

"Hey, come here," he whispered, pulling Sherlock closer and slowly kissing up the side of his neck. "That was really good," he said, grinning against him. "Thank you." John rubbed his cheek along Sherlock's and nosed along his jaw, breathing him in, running a hand over Sherlock's shoulder and down his back. "God, you're shaking," he said quietly, feeling the tremors run beneath his hand. 

"It got a bit intense," Sherlock explained with a breathy chuckle. God, he really was trembling. "I'm fine. I just didn't want to... ah..." he gave a small smile, "go any further with that... position. It was far too tempting." Feeling positively lightheaded, Sherlock leaned down to suck at the skin beneath John's ear. "Your turn," he offered in a rough voice. "Anything, anything you want to do, or want me to do." His cock slipped against John's hipbone and he jerked, doubling over in pleasure. "God, please."

"I want to go down on you." The words rushed out of John's mouth before he was even aware of them; he was far too distracted by Sherlock's heated plea, on the breathy little gasps that came from him as his hips rocked forward. "If that's alright," he said thickly, desperately trying to remind himself that fucking Sherlock tonight would likely leave his boyfriend incapacitated; he'd been so rough with him the night before. This was a great alternative though, and something John greatly wanted to try and do for Sherlock. "I've always liked it, and I know it's going to be a bit different in our case, but I want to. I do."

Sherlock _whimpered_ , just the thought of John's mouth on his cock bringing him to the edge very quickly. "Oh fuck yes," he agreed frantically. He scrambled off of John and onto his back when suddenly he realised that there were a great deal of variables to this. How should he be positioned? Sitting up? Lying flat? And what was he supposed to do with his hands? Surely it would be rude to clench them tightly in John's hair, even more so to thrust up into that warm, wet heat of John's mouth... His cock twitched just thinking about it. Wait, hadn't he been fretting about.... something or other?

"Language," John teased with a grin as he crawled over Sherlock. "Jesus, I really am a terrible influence." He laughed quietly, leaning down and seeking out Sherlock's lips with his own. "Just let me take over okay? I got you." With one more quick peck, John sat back and gripped Sherlock's hips, pulling him a bit further down the bed, against his knees. He nestled himself between Sherlock's legs and stretched out over him, groaning as he ground his hips down and their cocks brushed together. "Shit, I think I need to write an entire blog entry on just how fucking good you are in bed. I'd never post it, but you get the idea," he growled as he hotly kissed down Sherlock's neck, linking his fingers with the man's and raising their joined hands over Sherlock's head. "Three days, and I'm still so wired."

"That's..." Sherlock panted, "that's mostly physiological... mm.... physiological stimulation," he elaborated. His arms flexed beneath John's hands, sending a thrill down his spine as he realised John had him good and pinned. "Not necessarily parallel to my... skills. You're the one who actually knows what he's doing. Well..." he smirked, breath hitching as John ground against him again. "We'll see how much you've learned in this area." He bucked up insistently, wanting to drag it out even as his cock was impatient for the mouth that was currently ravaging Sherlock's throat. "God John, please. Mouth. On me. Now."

"God I love it when you talk like that," John breathed against him before releasing Sherlock and sliding down his body. He knew where Sherlock wanted him, but he couldn't _help it_ , he had to stop to brush his lips over Sherlock's hipbones. They were such a turn-on for him, and it was really a bit difficult to cut his time short and keep on moving. But Sherlock was so deliciously needy right now, and John wanted nothing more than to pleasure him, pleasure him until he couldn't take it anymore. Or at least try; John could only hope he'd be half as good as Sherlock had felt when they last did this. He tried to think of the act clinically, technically, but God no, if he was too much in his head thinking about nerve bundles and the like, he was bound to be rubbish. Sherlock's cock lay rigid and upright against his stomach, and Christ, it really did have a nice length and gorgeous curve to it. John huffed lightly to himself at the thought; he was never going to be able to get away with playing the "not gay" card ever again. He grinned and dipped down to rub his lips along the swollen head, his tongue darting out to taste the wet secretions at the tip. He _groaned_  at the texture and pressed down on Sherlock's thighs, spreading his legs further to bury his nose and inhale along the coarse hair at the base. Sherlock's unique scent was potent, and intoxicating, and surrounding him... _Fuck_. John was in trouble, he knew that now. It truly was overwhelming, experiencing Sherlock on such a base level, tasting him, smelling him...John was overtaken, his nerves starting to dissipate as he boldly licked at the base and mouthed his way back up. 

Oh. _Oh_. Fuck. Sherlock's hand flew to the back of John's head as he let out a small shout. His spread thighs trembled violently, bracketing John between his legs. Who was between them. _With his mouth on Sherlock's cock_. In their sexual encounters so far, the only direct contact Sherlock had had to his cock was John's hand or cock against it. And while the fucking was utterly brilliant as well, it was a wholly different feeling having warm wetness lapping eagerly at him. Sherlock had never felt anything like it in his life. "Oh, oh, _oh_ ," Sherlock panted in short, staccato breaths. They raised in pitch rather quickly as his hips began thrusting lightly against John's mouth, Sherlock's hand still carefully gripping the back of John's head. "Oh fuck," he whined helplessly, feeling seconds away from blacking out in pleasure. Was this how John had felt when Sherlock had done it? Oh god, he was going to be in John's mouth. _Inside John_. Suddenly, without warning, Sherlock's cock twitched and he came violently, hips bucking uncontrollably and his mouth wide. Once he came back down dizzily, his body went hot in embarrassment. Oh, for god's sakes.

"Oh my god," he panted, staring down at John with wide eyes. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Oh fuck." His head fell back, his hand coming up to cover his eyes in utter mortification. John hadn't even barely _done_ anything yet, and Sherlock hadn't even _warned him_. Surely that wasn't very courteous. Sherlock groaned again. "Damn it," he growled quietly.

John was stationary for a long while, completely caught off guard and slow in understanding that the warm substance now sliding down a bit of his hair and left temple was ejaculate. He looked to Sherlock, or tried to anyway, the man was absolutely _horrified_  and hiding his eyes. "Well, that's a new record for me," John said finally, smiling and chuckling lightly in fond amusement. "Hey, it's okay, it's not a big deal," he said, sitting back and licking his lips, his gaze eventually moving towards the bathroom. After a few seconds of rubbing one of Sherlock's calves, John stood from the bed and disappeared into the loo, returning a bit later with a wet washcloth that he had wrung out and was now using to rub at the side of his head. When he sat back down on the bed, Sherlock still hadn't budged, and once John was satisfied he had gotten most of the semen off himself he laid on his side next to Sherlock, wiping the damp cloth over the man's lower stomach. "Stop it," John softly growled, carefully bringing Sherlock's hand down with his own free one so that he could properly kiss at his cheek and jaw. "It's okay. New, that's all it is. You'll get a bit more used to it, trust me. And hey, at least I know I was doing something good. Gave me a bit of an ego boost." 

Sherlock still lay there thoroughly displeased with himself. John had been so wonderful about letting him push his boundaries, explore, do things John hadn't been entirely sure he wanted, but had trusted Sherlock enough to try. And when Sherlock had finally let him do what _he_ wanted... "Sorry," he mumbled again, relaxing a bit as John peppered him with kisses. "That can't have been very satisfying on your part." Literally, as John hadn't come yet. Brilliant, so he was both embarrassingly inexperienced _and_  woefully inattentive. He immediately rolled on top of John and kissed him deeply. "Let me make it up to you," he insisted, palming John's ribs. "The last thing you said you wanted got a bit bungled. So let's try this again." He leaned down to suck gently on one of John's nipples, remembering how delightfully sensitive they were the last time. "Tell me how you want to come. Anything you want, and I promise not to rush it this time," he finished with a sharp bite. 

John hissed and arched into Sherlock's mouth, his cock starting to fill out again; he had softened slightly in the passing minutes without stimulation. It took him a second to direct his focus, think over Sherlock's offer, and ultimately he moved Sherlock onto his side so he could crawl to the nightstand and retrieve their lubricant. "Might as well make a bit of use out of this," he said, tossing the bottle back in Sherlock's direction. He returned to his position, flopping down on his back and scooting close before taking Sherlock's hand and pressing it down over his erection. His eyes scanned Sherlock's, just watching as he let him feel how hard he was. "This," John said lowly, with a firm nod. "Like this. So I can kiss you."

Sherlock crawled over John to retrieve the lubricant, another wave of annoyance at himself washing over him. A hand job seemed quite anticlimactic after everything, and it was all Sherlock's fault. And John's fault, just a bit. He really did have a talented mouth. Or perhaps this was more than that. It could be anything. Perhaps John was feeing like he'd reached his boundaries for the evening on what he was comfortable with, and wanted something simple now. Something intimate with Sherlock. Because Sherlock had to admit, it was thoroughly appealing, the idea of kissing John while he controlled his pleasure. He could draw it out as long as he wished. With that thought in mind, Sherlock slicked up his hand and nestled in against John's body. He reached down and trailed light fingertips over the rigid flesh as he dipped down to kiss John achingly slowly. He'd never quite had a chance to explore this part of John properly. To feel and trace and categorise what felt best. As he got a proper grip on the now fully hardened erection, Sherlock trailed his kisses across John's face to murmur in his ear.

"You look stunning," he praised in a low voice, practically a whisper, gravelly with his recent orgasm. "Absolutely gorgeous. I could watch you for hours, days, and never be bored. What if I kept you here like this for hours, John?" he mused thoughtfully, emphasising his words with a gentle squeeze. "Would you enjoy it? _I_  would enjoy it. I think I'd enjoy the sight of you flushed and needy and _begging_  to come. It's what you've done to me several times already. Perhaps it's time I return the favour." He gentled his grip further, his palm light and teasing as he just barely stroked John's cock. He gave him a gentle kiss to the warm skin behind John's ear.

The noise that came from John was an odd sort of swallowed whimper, and he opened his eyes a bit at the foreign sound, heavily blinking as he looked up to Sherlock. He'd always had a weakness for the low timbre of the man's voice, which was now somehow impossibly deeper, rougher, and Jesus Christ, the way he was _talking_....John's eyes darted from Sherlock's eyes to his lips, and he reached his hand forward to wrap around the nape of his neck, slowly pulling their mouths together. He moaned and deepened the soft kiss, his legs spreading further as he lightly pressed his hips into that delicate, incredibly teasing touch. "God Sherlock," he breathed, his chuckle almost inaudible against Sherlock's lips. "You...yeah, I'm really turned on right now."

Sherlock grinned triumphantly. It was immensely satisfying to have John under _his_  power for once, to have _him_  squirming. " _Goooood_ ," Sherlock replied in a drawn out purr. He moved his hand when John bucked, not letting him give himself the friction he needed. "Ah ah ah," he scolded with a smirk. "That's my job. _I_  decide when you come, John. Unless you're trying to rush this," he teased, raising an eyebrow. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at John properly, deducing from his reactions...

"You like it when I talk," he realised with a bit of surprise. "I was just telling you what I was thinking, but... you like it." He smiled, pleased with himself for stumbling on the right thing by accident.

"Mmm," John hummed in admittance, grinning and kissing a corner of Sherlock's mouth. "I get off on it a bit. Especially when you're deducing. That in itself is amazing, and when you sound like you do..." He raised his eyebrows and let out a long exhale, shaking his head in reverence. "You have no idea. It's sexy as hell. _You're_  sexy as hell." He lightly bit down on Sherlock's bottom lip before letting his head fall back to the bed, his eyes flashing down to his abandoned erection. "Okay, Sherlock," John protested, "touch me, please. I'll be good, I promise."

Feeling as though he'd denied the poor man long enough, Sherlock brought his hand back to John's lovely cock and began stroking with proper intent. He kissed his way up John's pectorals, stopping to place deliberate kisses onto each nipple. "All right, John," he surrendered, the words hot against the side of his throat. "Go on. Take what you need, love." The endearment felt odd in his voice, but not unpleasant. He was simply unused to addressing anyone in such a way. "Let go. I want to see you _fall apart_ ," he ordered roughly, stroking John with short, quick jerks of his hand. It made a very satisfying sound, slick and filthy and perfect as he leaned down to kiss John messily. He didn't bother with proper technique, opting to match the rhythm of his tongue to the rhythm of his hand as he kissed John desperately.

John was absolutely captured by Sherlock's mouth, his whimpers and moans muffled as he desperately clutched at Sherlock's shoulders. The man had played his body with words and light, barely-there touches, teasing pause, and was now finishing with what John could only describe as a fucking _onslaught_. Everything felt so much more intense because of it, his body jolting and reacting, hips pressing hard into Sherlock's hand as the tension in his lower belly rapidly coiled. John couldn't get enough air, his breaths fast and shallow against Sherlock's lips, but he didn't want to break away. It was good; the combination of Sherlock's tongue, the lewd squelch of the lubrication, his cock consistently _throbbing_  beneath Sherlock's hand as he stroked. But he needed to breathe...

The second he broke off and gasped is the second his resolve came crashing down, and he threw his head further into the mattress, eyes clenched shut as his orgasm hit. His cries were nearly sobs but he couldn't censor himself; he was trapped in the feeling of Sherlock keeping his frantic pace and his own seed spilling warm all over. Sherlock didn't slow until the harsher tremors had passed, and only then was John capable of opening his eyes. He stared at the headboard and waited it out; waited for his body to finish settling down. The little aftershocks were so pleasant, intensified by just _knowing_  that Sherlock was intently watching him. When it all passed and John felt mobile again, he didn't even bother looking to the mess he had made, opting instead to rise on his elbows and kiss Sherlock in gratitude. "God, you always seem to give me exactly what I need", he breathed, burying his face under Sherlock's jaw and feeling the man's quick pulse beat against his skin.

"It was the least I could do," Sherlock waved off, feeling secretly pleased with his work. "After tonight, everything with the philharmonic and dinner..." He twisted his lips in remembered annoyance. "Among other things," he finished with a small frown. That had been far from his proudest moment. But they had time. All the time in the world, if he had anything to say about it. He leaned down to kiss John again, suckling curiously at his lips that still tasted faintly of Sherlock's precome. Oddly enough, his stomach rumbled at that. He glanced down in distaste. "I suppose this begins the need for nourishment in relation to an active sex life," he sighed regretfully. "I'll need to _eat_  now, and it's all your fault." He shot John a small, teasing smirk before pushing himself up. "Hungry?"

"Starving," John replied with a smug grin, watching as Sherlock sat up. He brought his gaze down to his stomach then squirmed around to grab the earlier rag and gently clean himself off. He still felt dirty, messy, but in a way it was nice. Indicative of their indeed very active sex life.

"You know, this practically has been a 'sex' holiday all on its own," he said, finally standing from the bed and pulling on his discarded pants. "I'm nearing forty Sherlock. You're making me feel pretty damn good about myself. Mary and I were barely even-" John stopped himself, finding his words badly placed and completely inappropriate. "Sorry. Bit awkward, that."

Sherlock froze momentarily before shaking it off and clearing his throat. He was the one here after a rather spectacular bout of sex. Not Mary. He smiled lightly at John. "Just a bit. It's all right." He reached out to squeeze John's thigh reassuringly. "I'll get the food. Don't get up." With a gentle smack to John's leg, Sherlock stumbled on slightly wobbly legs to the kitchen for their forgotten takeaway. His stomach growled again, snarling towards the smell of the food. "Yes, all right," Sherlock snapped in annoyance, snatching at the bags and carrying them back into their room. And wasn't that just a thoroughly pleasing thought? He tossed John a container and chopsticks. "I'm not getting back up," he informed John as he flopped gracelessly back onto the mattress. "So if you want tea, you'll be the one making it." He grinned and took a bite of chicken, groaning happily at the taste.

John chuckled and moved to turn on a small lamp at their bedside before pecking Sherlock's cheek and settling himself against the headboard. "This is nice," he said, breaking apart his chopsticks and taking up his box. "This is really nice." He followed Sherlock's lead by stuffing a few noodles in his mouth, a sigh of content leaving him as he did so. He looked around the dimly lit room, feeling open and at peace, still lingering on an endorphin high.

"I'm really happy here Sherlock," John said after a while. "With you. I want to be so mad for all the bullshit and horrid circumstances we've been through leading up to this, and hell, part of me still is, but...I'm not so sure that we would have happened had things been different, you know? Had there been no psychopath, or your suicide, or Mary, I'm not so sure we would even be together right now. Only because we'd probably still be playing the same game, still dancing around each other. So part of me's glad we had a push, because I've got you, and I'm here, and you're fucking _eating_ , and yeah...I'm just bloody happy."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed in agreement around a mouthful of noodles. "You're far too invested in my eating habits," he added, ruining it by stuffing a large bite of chicken into his mouth as well. They ate in comfortable silence, legs tangled in the duvet, arms and shoulders pressed tightly together. Once he'd eaten his fill, Sherlock set his empty carton on the bedside table and shifted to lie draped across John's torso. He pressed sleepy kisses to the warm skin, burrowing deeper in the duvet. "Thank you for tonight," he murmured, nuzzling John's stomach fondly. "You didn't have to do that, I know it was a big step for you, but you did. And I loved it. Quite the fist date, indeed," he chuckled. "I love you. Thank you." His eyes slipped shut as he spoke.

"Love you too," John replied, a warm smile on his face as he finished the rest of his dinner, Sherlock eventually dozing off completely. He made a gentle start to set his box with Sherlock's and turn off the lamp but paused before he got there. John pursed his lips in thought before determinedly shifting back to where he was, setting his near-empty box of food down next to him for the moment. He slowly brought his hand to Sherlock's shoulder, sliding it down his upper back, his fingers seeking out the areas where there was a change in texture of the skin. Healed lacerations. He had noticed them the very first night while he had been preparing Sherlock for intercourse, but he didn't want to draw any focus then, lest his confusion and unease make Sherlock feel self-conscious or guarded. That night could have very well been all they had left; there would be time for these kinds of questions later. John's brows furrowed as his eyes and fingers drifted over several scars, both long and broken, light in color but scattered along the skin of his back. Sherlock hadn't had these back at Buckingham Palace a few years ago; John was certain. Or maybe he just hadn't been close enough to see them. Sherlock was only uncovered for an instant after all...No, these scars still appeared to be in the process of fading, so how? When?

John sighed, trying to steer himself from the much more pressing and likely 'Who do I need to kill?', but it ran through his mind unabashed anyway. He suddenly became aware of the tightness in his jaw and his heavier breathing, and worked to shut down a reaction, not wanting to wake Sherlock. With another worn sigh, he finally took up his box and carefully leaned over to set it on the nightstand. John shut off the light, re-emerging them in the dark, and worked the duvet up around them, fully settling himself on his back. Sherlock thankfully stirred only slightly, and John wrapped his arms around him, keeping him secure in a protective embrace and kissing into his hair. "No one's ever going to hurt you again," he quietly whispered, his thumb softly brushing up and down against his back. "I won't let them." The words felt frustratingly fabricated even as they left his lips. He couldn't guarantee that. Especially not with their danger fixation and Sherlock consistently being reckless as hell. They got roughed up all the time while out on casework. They _would_  get hurt. _Sherlock_ would continue to get hurt. But the words were all John had for comfort, and he held onto them as if they were a sole promise. Whatever he could do to prevent anything like this from happening again, he'd do. It took him a long while to fall asleep that night, so many _questions_ , and amid laying soft kisses to Sherlock's forehead he finally drifted off, his mind finally at rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock had so many adorable moments in this one, and I totally burst out laughing when my partner sent the reply about him coming quickly. I could totally see that happening, and I loved it. XD Enjoy yo fluff and sexy times, because the next chapter is starting off hella angsty. Ugh, it hurts so good.


	10. Chapter 10

"Oh for god's sakes," Sherlock groaned. He tightened his dressing gown around him and scowled at his brother, seated primly in _his_  armchair. "What do you want?" He made his way into the kitchen and very deliberately set about making _two_  cups of tea. One for him and one for John. None for Mycroft.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Can I not simply drop by to inquire about my little brother's first date?" he asked innocently fingers tapping idly at the handle of that infernal umbrella. "I was interested to hear you declined dinner with the good doctor. However..." He glanced at the bedroom door and hummed. "I suppose I can't blame you. What with the more _attractive_  offer you were presented."

Sherlock glared at him and brought his tea to John's armchair, sitting across from his still-smirking, insufferable brother. "I believe I asked what you wanted, Mycroft. I was having a perfectly lovely morning before--" His eyes fell upon the file wedged between Mycroft and the arm of the chair. "No," he replied immediately, furiously.

"Sherlock--"

" _No_ ," he snarled, setting aside the tea forcefully. "Not today. He doesn't need to find out today. Leave."

Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows in confusion... a rare sight indeed. "'Find out'?" he repeated in confusion. "What do you mean 'find out'? Haven't you told him?"

Sherlock averted his gaze, sipping petulantly at his tea. He didn't answer.

John toweled off his wet hair as he emerged from the bedroom in loose pajamas and his robe, able to see the two brothers seated from where he was. "Mycroft," John acknowledged on his way to the kitchen, completely unfazed by his unexpected appearance. People seemed to drop in all the time here: Mrs. Hudson, random clients, Sherlock's posh brother. He was far too used to it by now. John was just glad that he had dressed somewhat before walking out here. He smiled at there already being a cup of tea waiting for him, and he took it up and walked towards the sitting room, leaning himself aside the entryway.

"Thank you for yesterday," he said to Mycroft, because he knew damn well Sherlock wouldn't. "It was...good." The corner of his mouth curled in smug remembrance, and he pointedly took a long sip from his tea. "New case?" John asked when he brought his cup down, nodding his head toward the file under Mycroft's arm.

As Sherlock stared murderous, cold daggers at him, Mycroft presented the file with a dramatic flourish. "No, actually. It's for you." He stood gracefully to his feet, tucking his umbrella under his arm and handing the file to John. "I presumed you would like the information on the woman you know as Mary Morstan. What I did not take into account, however," he added smoothly, "was the possibility of my brother being able to resist telling you what he'd discovered. He is always _so_  eager to impress you."

At this, he shot a glance back at Sherlock, who was taking deep, shallow breaths in an attempt to control his rage. Damn him. _Damn_  him. He had no right barging in here and dumping this load of nonsense on them before he'd had a chance to properly prepare John for it. He kept his face neutral, trying desperately not to look as unbearably furious and anxious as he felt.

Mycroft continued. "Although I suppose I should have realised. He's so very sentimental these days, it shouldn't be much of a surprise that he'd rather like to protect you from the truth. I, however, believe you have a right to this information, and am not interested in sugarcoating it."

Whatever peace had been present on John's face slipped fast as he blankly stared at the thick folder in his hand. His lips parted slightly and he looked to Sherlock, unable to see the man's face with him seated in his chair.

"Right. Thanks," he said eventually, clearing his throat and returning his gaze to the folder. John set his tea down on the stand next to Sherlock, then walked himself over to the front door of their flat, opening it and holding onto the handle as he cocked his head towards the door.

"Go," he told Mycroft. "We need to be alone."

Mycroft gave him a short nod. "Of course," he replied smoothly. Before he walked out the door completely, however, he leaned in to tell John quietly, "Try not to be too angry with him. He always does what he thinks is best, no matter how helpful it may or may not actually be. And he cares very much for you. It's still very new to him." With that, he clutched his umbrella and headed downstairs.

Sherlock kept his head down as he heard the click of the front door being shut. He felt entirely cold, and somehow oddly flushed hot at the same time. Stupid, he was so _stupid_. Sod Mary and what he thought he owed her. He owed John far more. He should have told him. He should have said something. And now John would be angry all over again and it was all his fault and...

"I'm sorry," he said in a small voice, the sound seeming so very loud in the tense silence of the flat. "I didn't know he would show up like that, although perhaps I should have. That was my mistake, and I apologise." He still didn't look up.

John didn't sit right away, couldn't, and he resorted to silently pacing a bit across the floor. That did nothing to ease him, and Sherlock had yet to say a word, so eventually John slowly sat himself down in Sherlock's chair. He realized then that he'd never actually sat here before, and he didn't quite like it; it felt different, uncomfortable, not what he was used to. John couldn't believe how _small_  Sherlock looked across from him, with his head down and how he had submissively curled a bit into himself; like a child that was about to be reprimanded. The sight made him sigh heavily, and he looked down to the folder in his lap once more.

"I'm going to have to look at this either way Sherlock," he said lowly, shaking his head. "But I'd rather hear it from you first. I know that you really struggled with telling me, and I know that you wanted to, and wanted to do the right thing...thing is, you and Mycroft wouldn't be acting like this if it wasn't something big, and I can't think of anything, and I'm-what could possibly be about?"

Sherlock didn't speak for a moment, choosing his words carefully in his head before saying a thing out loud. "At the risk of sounding like one of your ridiculously overdramatic James Bond characters," he began slowly, picking at a loose thread in the arm of John's chair, "Mary is... not quite the person you think she is. She loves you, that part is real," he assured him quickly. "As far as I can tell, nothing about her feelings for you have been anything less than sincere. Her past before she met you, however...." He inhaled deeply through his nose as a muscle in his jaw twitched under the unbearable tension. "Mary Morstan is—or was, as it were— an intelligence agent. Most likely a sniper. In fact, that isn't even her name. I don't know what it really is, but it may be in that file. Or not. She's obviously very clever about hiding away such things."

As he delved deeper into the explanation, his body assumed its normal position of deep contemplation. He sunk into the back of the chair and steepled his fingertips beneath his nose. His voice began taking on the clinical tone of his deductions as he continued. "In hindsight, it was really rather obvious. No friends before five years ago, and no family to speak of whatsoever. Able to recognise a skip code on sight. Abnormally retentive memories. Her insistence you keep her out of your blog, out of the public eye. It's almost too minute to notice, but she has nearly the same defensive tic you do. Her hand twitched toward her waistband, where a weapon could easily be concealed. That's when I realised—"

He broke off suddenly, realising how far beyond _not good_  he had gone by now. Horrified by his own tactlessness (a new and strange feeling he didn't like at all), he snapped his mouth shut and swallowed. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Anyway... that's the extent of what I know," he finished quietly.

John was perfectly still, staring at Sherlock with his brows deeply furrowed, but the tension could only hold out so long, and he huffed, the sound shrill and sharp.

"Nah," he whispered with a dangerous smile on his face as he shook his head. "Nah, because...that would mean that you deliberately kept something like that from me. And you wouldn't do that. Not to me." John's gaze was challenging, direct, but his twisted smile didn't hold.

"No, actually you would," he said gravely after several seconds, and he inhaled deeply before looking down to the file under his hands. "I'm not stupid. But apparently everyone seems to think so. 'Let's just pull one over on ol' John Watson. Let's lie to him, let's protect him, he can't protect himsel-"

He had to cut himself off then, because he immediately thought of Irene. Hadn't he done the same thing? Lied to Sherlock to protect him from the truth? Git knew the whole time, but still, John had done it.

_Hypocrite_.

John lost a lot of his steam then, bringing one hand to rub wearily at his face. "Sorry. I know why you did it, I probably would have done the same had the roles been reversed, I just wish you...hadn't. Mary-or whoever she is, murdered people for work, for money or even sport, hell, who knows. And she's going to be the mother of my child, so-"

He was feeling very clammy, a light sweat creeping down his neck. John steeled himself and brought his hand back down to the file, determinedly opening it. His eyes scanned hastily over the documents, as if it'd spare him the horrific details; spare him from getting too involved.

_So many names, so many numbers, so many people..._

He only read a few of the pages before he harshly shut the folder closed, stood up, and unceremoniously dropped it in Sherlock's lap.

"I can't," he said, shaking his head, the fingers of his left hand tightly curling into his palm. "I can't look anymore. You look it over, and tell me if there's anything we need to do." He swallowed, frustrated by his body's reaction. This was just like one of their cases now, and yet not, because it was so damn personal this time. John felt useless, immobilized.

He pulled himself away, stepping towards the bedroom, but stopped. "Your back," John accused suddenly and without warrant, taking a few paces back towards Sherlock. Honesty, he needed honesty to keep himself from emotionally combusting. "You've got scars, I've seen them. Who did that to you? And don't," he said in warning as Sherlock barely opened his mouth, "don't you lie to me, Sherlock. What happened to you when you were away?"

Sherlock stared back with wide eyes, startled by John's sudden, intense interest in his scars. His pulse raced as cold trickles of _something_  seeped through his veins. He supposed it had been too much to hope John wouldn't notice the scars, what with how often they were naked around each other lately. He should be grateful John hadn't said something before this, really. John stood there waiting for an answer, and he deserved one. Sherlock wanted to give him what he wanted so badly. But just the thought of telling John all that had happened to him while he was away, to bring him into that world...Sherlock swallowed painfully and picked at the corner of the file.

"Nothing... good," he finally answered quietly. Just that much had his pulse spiking in his throat, brought a cold sweat to his brow. He felt he had done tremendously in readjusting to being home, and most of that had been because of John. Because of his desire to be all right for John. He was fine. That part of his past was over. But for the first time in his life, Sherlock had encountered things he couldn't delete. And that was... unsettling. To say the very least. He shut his eyes tightly and took deep, deliberate breaths to calm his rebellious transport. Damn it all to hell, he was being utterly ridiculous.

"Sorry. Just... give me a moment," he asked quietly, humiliated by his body's weak responses to mere memories.

Sherlock's blatantly obvious physical reactions and delayed speech confirmed what John had already known deep down, and his gaze fell to the floor. His questions had been triggering; whatever events Sherlock had suffered through, they had indeed been traumatic. Had to have been, because Sherlock never once brought them up. Even if John had played along, allowed Sherlock to explain every aspect of his grand ruse and two-year adventure upon his return, Sherlock wouldn't have mentioned any of _this_. It was all a very firm reminder of just how _human_ he was, how capable he was of _feeling_.

John wanted to redact his words, apologise and walk away like he had originally intended, but couldn't. This is where everything got so complicated, and they were right back at it; trying to find that tricky balance between what was right and what kept each other safe; all complications that came from just loving someone. However selfish, John knew this was something he needed to know.

And Sherlock...Sherlock was clearly haunted by this. Perhaps just saying it could be of some help. At least, that's something Ella would say, in all practicality, who knew. John stood and waited, patient but unable to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock spent far longer than he would have liked trying to calm his racing pulse, his eyes shut in concentration. When he finally opened them, he saw John looking down at the floor rather than at him. While it was preferable not to have John staring at him as he spoke, Sherlock's gut lurched sickeningly.

"Serbia," he finally managed quietly. He too looked down at the floor. "The scars. On my back. Just before I returned, I was... I had been captured by an underground Serbian terror cell. Stupid mistake, really." He swallowed thickly and squeezed his fist tightly on the arm of John's chair. "I was held there for days, nearly two weeks, according to Mycroft. He's the one who eventually got me out," he explained reluctantly. "But I was there for quite some time. They worked for the web and were... not pleased with me. I was... interrogated. For information about my mission, Mycroft, MI6. And I was... arrogant. Stupidly arrogant. They grew frustrated when I proved less compliant than others no matter what they tried. And believe me, they tried... quite a bit." At this, his stomach lurched again, to the point where he almost thought he would need to make a run for the loo. He held it back valiantly and looked up at John with a firm gaze.

"The scars are a product of my time there. Of my _stupidity_. But it's in the past. They're not important now, and discussing it is only upsetting you," he noted, looking John up and down and taking in all the signs of distress he was showing. "So. Any more questions?" he mumbled distractedly, picking once more at the loose thread in John's chair.

It was strange, but the chair was quite comforting. It smelled of John, and it was warm and comfortable and surrounded him in a way his chair never did. It was lovely. He sank deeper into it and concentrated on not breathing quite so raggedly.

"That all happened right before you came back." When John's eyes finally met Sherlock's, they were full of anguish. "Sherlock, I knocked you down, and I...I hit you. Twice. Right after you'd been fucking _tortured_..."

He pursed his lips, and slowly shook his head. "No, Sherlock, this _is_  important. Very important. That night you didn't fight me back, you didn't defend yourself...you let me hurt you when you were already in pain. Regardless of what you may think, and even what I may have thought at the time, you didn't deserve that. I had no right to touch you, and I'm sorry...so sorry. But the way you're talking now about what happened over there, Jesus Christ, you can't sit here and blame yourself for what they did to you. It wasn't your fault Sherlock," he said quietly, desperately. "It wasn't your fault."

"I could have shut up," Sherlock argued, not knowing why. Perhaps it was because the way John told him it wasn't his fault, it sounded as though he blamed himself in some way. And that was so unbelievably far past acceptable, it wasn't even funny. "You know me. You know how I am. I couldn't shut up to save my life, admittedly quite literally this time. In some ways, yes... It _was_  my fault."

He stood from the armchair and walked over to where John stood, looking so guilty and so destroyed. He didn't reach out to touch him, unsure of how it would be received right now.

"As for your reaction... I'll admit, it took me by surprise at the time. Only because I had assumed you would have been just slightly more pleased to see me. But your reactions were absolutely justifiable. I went about telling you in what was possibly the worst way I could have done it. I'm surprised you didn't stab me with a fork," he huffed out weakly at the pathetic attempt at humour. He ground his teeth together painfully and tapped his fingers against his thigh in agitation. "But you have to understand, John... I would do it again. All of it. Everything. If it came down to keeping you safe and alive, I would do it all again a thousand times over. And I wouldn't let you stop me. Do you understand?" he asked fiercely. He ducked down to meet John's eyes as best he could. "It's not your fault either. You did nothing wrong. _Nothing_."

John glanced up at Sherlock, his own jaw clenched, expression tense with restraint. He chose to ignore the latter statement. "I'd make it hell for you Sherlock," he warned in all sincerity, voice a low whisper. "Hell for you to try and do something like that again; sacrifice yourself for me, hurt for me. I'd fight you every single step of the damn way. I won't lose you again. You need to understand that too." John went silent for a while, but before long he had given a long exhale through his nose and stepped forward, loosely taking Sherlock in his arms. It was by no means a surrender, but Jesus, he needed the contact. He stood there with his lips firmly pressed to a clothed shoulder, his focus shifting down to the folder laying forgotten on his chair.

John tried to reassure himself that he had asked Sherlock before, and that the detective didn't seem to think Mary an immediate threat to them or herself. He liked to believe that Sherlock would have been truthful about that at least. But his knuckles rubbed along Sherlock's back regardless, a clear sign of his mounting anxiety. Mary had murdered so many, and that was only according to the portion of the file he had actually read through. Not that he himself hadn't killed before, but their reasoning had been vastly different. Christ, had Sherlock upset her enough, had she wanted, she could have taken him out. Easily. Without John even knowing, suspecting; he'd have been just as oblivious as the last time he had lost him. And this time the guilt would have killed him. He had nearly succumbed to it before; he spent two years reliving the same day over and over. If had just trusted, _trusted_  that Sherlock's reaction to Mrs. Hudson being shot wasn't genuine, he would have stayed with Sherlock, and possibly saved them from all of this. Saved Sherlock from 'dying', saved himself from a torture of sorts knowing that he, a doctor, a soldier, a best friend...that none of it was enough to keep Sherlock alive. He couldn't protect him, couldn't save him. And even now those assaulting feeling remained, because he knew that Sherlock had actually been alive and suffering on his own for two years taking down that damn web. If things had been different, and if in the end that's still what it came down to, John should have been right there with him. Doing whatever he could to keep Sherlock alive, even if that meant giving his own life. What Sherlock didn't seem to understand, was that there would always be another John Watson. But Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, he was indispensable, in so many ways. And that wasn't just his love or affection for him talking.

Part of John knew he should be happy, happy that Sherlock was being so _human_ , feeling something completely valid and showing just how much he truly cared for him, but it honestly _killed_  him to think of Sherlock purposely putting himself in harm's way just to keep him safe. Because he knew, he _knew_  it wouldn't stop there. Wouldn't stop with just talk of re-living past events. Any future events would be fair game as well, and that alone made John want to vomit, especially since they were in the middle of all this mess with Mary. 

"I need some air," he said suddenly, shaking his head and breaking apart from Sherlock, rushing to the bedroom with the intention of changing and getting the hell out of there.

Sherlock stood frozen for a moment, dazed by John's sudden departure. He was horribly unused to such a rollercoaster of emotion, and wanted desperately to find out how to get off. John had been angry, then hurt, then guilty, then angry, then had hugged him, and was now... angry again? It was too much, and Sherlock's patience had finally reached its limit.

He stormed after John, following him into the bedroom and standing in the doorway. "You wanted me to talk about it," he murmured calmly, anger simmering low in his gut. John had made him open up, asked him to expose himself in a way that was a far cry from how he'd been exposing himself the last few days. And now he was just going to _leave_?

"Did you ever consider that perhaps this is _precisely_  why I didn't tell you in the first place?" he demanded. "You didn't need to know. Knowing what happened to me doesn't do you any good, it doesn't do _me_ any good. Knowing the extent of what I'd do to keep you safe? You're more of an idiot than I thought if you didn't already know that. And I'm not stupid enough not to know you'd do the same for me."

He stalked over to where John was yanking clothes out of their closet. "I'm glad you weren't there," he snarled, wrenching a jumper out of John's hands and tossing it aside. "You have this idea in your mind that you are my protector, that I would have been safe had you come along. Even if that were true, what would be the cost? You don't know the extent of what happened while I was away and frankly, I don't plan on your ever finding out. If you had come along, those things might have happened to you, and..." he broke off, feeling sick at the thought. "No. I would happily burn down all of London before I let any of that happen to you. It's over. It's _done_. I don't understand how it warrants further discussion. It would be best if we just dropped it."

If John had been in a different mindset, he would have laughed at the irony; how he was here losing himself to his mind, and how Sherlock was actually being the rational one. But he couldn't see anything beyond the anger that held him captive; it felt particularly possessive of his head and hands. His eyes bore into the jumper laying crumpled on the floor, and his chest heaved and fingers curled tightly into a fist at his side. John didn't dare glance up, solely because he didn't trust himself. Right now, it felt like there was a dangerously high chance of him rushing forward and bashing Sherlock's temple in if their eyes met, and that was so backwards from anything and everything he stood for. Completely out of the question.

"I know I asked," he started lowly through gritted teeth. "And I knew, already knew where it was going, how it was going to make me feel. I needed to hear it from you. But Sherlock, this isn't even just about that. It's about you realising that I'm not the person you seem to think I am, and the sooner you accept that, the better it'll be for both of us. We don't have to pretend any more, okay? I'm not the same person you fell in love with back then, I'm not that John anymore." He lifted his gaze and turned back to the closet to jerk another jumper off a hanger.

"Do you even know who I am?" he questioned suddenly, hectically, finally looking to Sherlock as he bunched the fabric in his hands. "Who I am now, right now? I'm nervous, and scared all the time, and seriously starting to wonder if leaving the flat or the casework is even going to be worth it anymore. _Me_ , wondering if the cases and the adventures and the adrenaline is worth it all. It disgusts me, but there's a part of me right now that just wants to ask you to retire, and I can't even do that, because it's the only thing keeping you occupied and slowing you from shooting up. 

But the thing is...years ago I understood all that. Understood all the risks we took, the sort of unspoken pact we had, respected it even. The night we first met Moriarty, we were both ready to die if need be. Together. We never said it out loud, and that was before we knew how the other felt. It was just mutually _understood_. But you can't ask the same of me now Sherlock, please understand, you _can't_. And that's just the product of me going through some deep shit, and refusing to properly deal with any of it. Two years in, and I still mourning you. Still visited your gravesite as often as I could, talked to a fucking slab of stone like a lunatic, stopped talking to everyone we once knew because hearing them talk about you would mean that it was all final, and I couldn't accept that. Couldn't let you go, so I never let you go. And because of that, I never got the closure I so badly needed before you resurfaced. I made myself believe the problem was with me. That if I had been smarter, or kinder, or just _more_  you wouldn't have left me. That I could have been enough to keep you breathing."

John's body was losing it's original strength and rigidity as the minutes passed; there was only so long he could stay crested. He could feel himself crashing, and it was incredibly frustrating, but he didn't have any means to slow it down.

"And then suddenly you were back,  _somehow_ you had come back to me, and I couldn't understand _why_. Still can't. Because if you left me when things were good and when we were happiest, why would you even bother returning when everything I once was didn't exist anymore? I can't for the life of me comprehend it Sherlock, but somehow you're here, and just the thought of you leaving me again or being hurt, of me not being able to prevent it, of not being good enough, strong enough, of these feelings never stopping...it's the most paralyzing thing I've ever known, and I've been fucking drugged and have also watched you jump off a bloody building.

You're so ready to do all this for me, Christ you even jumped in a fire for me, and I would have abided that once, but now Sherlock, now, I'm not worth it. You're standing here expecting me to understand the things that I used to, so that things can _be_  like they used to, and I'm telling you, Sherlock, I don't know how to do that. How to get myself back. This is what I have to work with now, and I'm not blaming _you_ , God no, I forgave you for this long ago, it's just...the reality. I'm lost, just, so lost. " John shook his head and pursed his lips, eyes shining with tears he refused to shed. 

"I love you Sherlock, God I love you, and I can't even begin to describe what the last few days have meant to me. Couldn't possibly, but that's okay, I don't think I have to," he murmured, a tense, sad smile making its way on his face for just a brief second. "I think you know. I feel you know."

John looked down to the floor, a sharp, shaky inhale tearing through him. He knew what he was about to say, and knew that there would be consequences. How well this would be handled would all come down to Sherlock, to his reaction, and Christ, this could end so badly, but John felt he had to do it. Deep down, he knew he had to do it.

"We rushed this Sherlock. Rushed us. We're trying to put two people together who haven't been able to heal on their own, and it's clearly not working. Us living together again, and covering it all with laughter or intimacy isn't going to fix the problems that we have individually. And with everything that's been happening lately, it's just-what I'm trying to say is that maybe, maybe it's best if we...if we put this on hold for a while. I need help," he admitted, more to himself than Sherlock, his eyes burning; he felt so drained and worn by this point. "And I need to actually try this time. All I know is that I can't be here, taking things out on you that I don't understand, yelling at you, making you feel like utter shit. I don't like who I am, and I don't like what I'm doing to you. But I know that I used to like myself very much, after meeting you, and somehow I need to get myself back there. Have to. I-I can see about maybe staying with my sister for a while, until I can make arrangements. And I don't know that you will, but it might be of help to talk to someone. Someone who isn't me. We can still be in correspondence about Mary if you'd like, but other than that...I don't think we should be talking. Just for now. This isn't a goodbye Sherlock, and I'm not asking you to understand it, but, I feel this is the only way we're ever going to get there. Going to be okay. Things can end up worse, so much worse if we just leave things as is. I don't know what else we can do Sherlock, I don't what else to do." John hadn't given him an opportunity to even get a word in, and when he finally looked up, a pathetic little sound left his throat. He had said his piece, the rest was up to him. 

No. No, this wasn't how it was supposed to go. John wasn't supposed to _leave_. He was supposed to see the brilliance of Sherlock's logic. He was supposed to sigh in annoyance and comply anyway. He wasn't supposed to...

"You said you wouldn't leave," Sherlock found himself saying, feeling sickeningly numb. "You said you weren't going anywhere." He knew how juvenile he sounded, petulantly throwing John's words back in his face. It was difficult to care.

"I don't care that you're different, even if I think that's utter bollocks. You're still _you_. And I don't care about you taking out your frustration on me. Is that not what relationships are for? I know it's going to take time," he added pleadingly, aching to reach out and touch John, to _make_  him stay. "But it's all right. I don't care. I told you I would wait, and I meant it. I swear I did."

This couldn't really be happening. He glanced over at the bed. How had everything gone so sickeningly wrong so quickly? Less than an hour ago, they had woken in each other's arms, happy and sated after the night before. Their _first date_. Sherlock's eyes burned as he realised they never even got to have a proper lie-in.

_We can still be in correspondence about Mary._

 As though they were just colleagues. As if they were just working a job. Sherlock felt as though his stomach was trying to sink its way to the floor. He felt sick with it.

"As for my leaving when everything was best... You know damn well why I left. It's not as though I was keen to skip town. I had no choice. If I had a choice between staying with you and _anything else_ , I'd like to think you'd know my decision. I don't intend on leaving you again. But I will never, never apologise for doing it in the first place. Not you, not Mycroft, not _anyone_  will ever convince me that I did the wrong thing. If you were in my position, you would have done the same thing. So don't you dare," he growled, "Don't you dare go blaming yourself for it. You are _everything_  to me. You are worth _everything_. And forgive me if I'm wrong, but I would assume you felt similarly about me. You would have done the same thing. But _I_  found a way to survive it. I found a way to come back to you. I am here and alive and _telling_  you that it is not your fault. Hear me and understand. And if you need help dealing with anything beyond that, _let me help_. I want to help. I want..."

He swiped furiously at his watering eyes, annoyed at himself for getting so bloody _invested_.

This was it.

This was exactly why Sherlock had never bothered with love and relationships before. They ended, all of them. It was always the same.

He felt stupid, childish for believing that he and John could be any different. He should have known. He should have realised.

_Caring is not an advantage_.

No, it really wasn't, was it? Sherlock didn't do this, was utter rubbish at emotions and sentiment, didn't know what John wanted from him, and it was suddenly just too much, far too much.

"Forget it," he snapped suddenly when John didn't respond, didn't say a word. "You stay here and call your sister. Make your arrangements. Do what you like. _I'll_  leave."

With that, Sherlock snatched some clothes out of the closet— _their closet_  his mind unhelpfully supplied—and took them into the sitting room. He dressed quickly, not looking back at his room as he grabbed his coat. Slamming the door as he left the flat.

John had lost all color in his face in the mere minute it took Sherlock to leave. The slam of the door made him flinch, the sound deafening even from the bedroom. So loud, so final, and John now stood alone in the midst of what he had done. Pale and shaking terribly, unable to draw air. But wasn't this what he wanted? After a bout of pleading, Sherlock had given up, and John couldn't blame him.

' _You said you wouldn't leave._ ' 

He _had_  let Sherlock believe he was staying put, wasn't going anywhere. Made his home with him, was the first to make love to him, let him think that they were going to work through it all together. He had reaffirmed him multiple times. And even though John had meant every word when he said it, he was ultimately overpowered; overtaken by that despicable, underlying buzz of insecurity that had alarmingly progressed since they got together. But now Sherlock had done him the favour, let him go, and yet...John could feel no relief, no sense of hope or comfort. He had let the best thing to ever happen to him just walk away.

When he finally realized he had yet to even take a breath, his chest heaved hard once, and everything he was trying to hold back suddenly burst. His hand flew to his face and he miserably cried into it, sobs soundless at first, then wrenching, tragic. He couldn't stifle himself, and only once he finally came back to himself did he start to worry about the possibility of Mrs. Hudson coming around. Sherlock had been so damn forceful with the door he was sure the entire building had heard it. He had to pull himself together.

John pointlessly wiped at his red, wet eyes, and began to time his breathing. He focused back on the closet, holding tightly onto his jumper as he scanned for his bag to start packing. He should be ready to go, so that if his sister agreed, he could be out of here as soon as possible; preferably before Sherlock came back. If Sherlock even came back today at all. John saw the bag laying in a corner and he reached for the strap to drag it out, leaving it bunched at his feet.

He just stared at it for a while, choosing instead to attend to changing his clothes. Give himself a bit more time. John made purposely slow work of it, gently tugging off his clothes and putting new attire on, his eyes still streaming. There was a hint of annoyance as he finished; there was no way to prolong it anymore, and he brought his attention back to the bag. Christ, he couldn't do this. It felt like he had just moved back in here. He _did_  just move back in here. His knees felt ready to give out, and he stepped backwards until he met the edge of the bed.

John sat, burying his face in his hands, trying to remind himself that this was what he _needed_. What he felt had to be done.  _Pull it together._  

The thought propelled him to reach for his phone and finish this, call his sister. As he was scrolling down to Harry's name in his contacts, he passed Greg's. And paused. Remembered what the Detective Inspector had told him when they last talked. Scrolled back up. Was confounded by what he was doing even as he sent the text.

_I screwed it up._

John's brows furrowed as he shook his head, huffing in frustration at himself. This was clearly a last ditch effort, and he had to ask himself: would he be doing this if he was truly confident in his decision? If he was so sure him and Sherlock needed to separate, then why was he still trying to fix it?

Jesus Christ, what did he want? What did he fucking want?

He thought, but the answer was actually quite simple. At the basest level, he wanted to go after Sherlock. If for nothing else, just to make sure he was okay. That feeling was innate. Where Sherlock went, he usually followed, and Sherlock had left extremely upset. John had been the anomaly to everything Sherlock believed about himself; one of the very few capable of making him express anything resembling human emotion. Sherlock just didn't do this, and the thought of trying so hard and it all failing anyway was bound to do some irreparable damage to him. John's only solace was that it was the middle of the morning, in broad daylight. He didn't imagine Sherlock would get himself into too much trouble, but then again, Moriarty had put him up to the edge of a roof in broad daylight, and Sherlock also knew every nook and cranny there was to London. If Sherlock didn't want to be found, he probably wouldn't be.

He should respect that Sherlock would need time alone, John knew that, they needed space, but he was starting to feel incredibly uncomfortable. If Sherlock was upset, truly upset, he wouldn't want to feel. Would want to make everything stop. What did Sherlock do when he didn't want to feel? Solved cases, kept his mind occupied. But there was also something else that was always a very real possibility, and now that John had cut himself completely out of the picture...would it be enough to push Sherlock to use again?

For someone so keen on Sherlock's safety, John hadn't quite considered everything, and he was standing from the bed before he knew it. Logically, he should just give warning to Mycroft, explain the situation and tell him to closely watch Sherlock for a while, or at least try to. Let John continue on his way, so he wouldn't torment Sherlock further. But if there was no need for alarm, Sherlock would be furious with both him and his brother, and that's the last thing John wanted right now.

Was it? Was it really?

Wouldn't it be easier being the source of Sherlock's hatred as opposed to being the cause of his pain? John didn't want to be either, and that was the honest truth. What he wanted was to just go back to soft kisses and loving smiles, promises of the future and the sound of Sherlock's laugh. Because when things had been good, they were very good. He'd been so happy for so much of it, Sherlock had been too, but that was all gone now. He let his fear single-handedly tear down their entire foundation, as if it were worth more than Sherlock Holmes. And to him, nothing meant more than Sherlock Holmes. John didn't give it anymore thought after that. 

He didn't have a clue what he was doing at this point, but he quickly left the flat and building, forgetting everything but his mobile in the process. John stood on the pavement and dialed Sherlock's number, lifting the phone to his ear. He was unsure of what he'd even say if he got him on the line, there'd been little time to de-escalate, and emotions were still running high on both their ends. What would he even do if he found him? What would he say?

John didn't know, but even if the outcome was the same, and even if this truly was it for them, he knew that he wasn't okay with that being their last conversation. Because he _wanted_  Sherlock, God more than anything he wanted to be with Sherlock, he just didn't know to help himself. 

"C'mon, pick up," he whispered, as he looked down the street, the chill air whipping against his cheeks. "Answer your phone, Sherlock, answer your phone..."

"John?" Greg answered, holding Sherlock's phone to his ear. "Hey. I got your text. Sorry, I would have replied sooner, but Sherlock came barging in here demanding a case. He's manic. Tossed his mobile at me when you called and told me to 'deal with this'."

He glanced over to where Sherlock was now outside his office, yelling at a nervously shrinking officer.

"Jesus Christ, mate. What the bloody hell happened?"

"Oh thank God," John loudly exhaled in relief, tipping his head back. "He's with you, okay, okay...It's all just a mess. I don't want to go into detail, but basically, things just...boiled over. I got some terrible news this morning, and between that and everything else, I lost it and suggested to him we take a break. Didn't give him much of a choice actually. He stormed off, I feel like shit, and that's where we're at," he said, shaking his head and bringing his gaze down to the ground.

"Right. Okay. Well," Greg responded in shock. "That's certainly... Huh. Hell, John." He scratched his head, glancing again at Sherlock's wild eyes and jerky movements.

Happy as he was to see the two of them together, Greg had no right to tell John not to make that decision. Logically, it was probably a logical one. They'd gone into this fairly quickly. For god's sakes, it had only been a few days. But he couldn't imagine any two people better suited for each other. He wished he had someone who looked at him the way Sherlock Holmes and John Watson looked at each other. Even before they had finally come to their senses.

"Is that something you, you know... want? You two, taking a break, I mean. Is that what you want? Because if it is, I can... I dunno, have a bit of a chat with him, or..."

John inhaled deeply, releasing the air slowly through his mouth. He took small steps in no blatant direction; it was seemingly impossible for him to stand still.

"No," he said finally, the word quiet but resolute. "No it's not." There was so much residual pressure in his face from his earlier outburst, and John brought a hand up to rub at his eyes and temples in attempt to quell the oncoming headache.

"It's not. I really want this to work out Greg. He's it for me. I need him, you know? And even after everything I told him, I _don't_  want to think about waking up tomorrow without him. But there's things that I also really need to work through, so...yeah," he said with a mirthless huff. "What do I do with that? I'm not feeling in control of anything right now and-"

He paused and licked his lips in thought, his brows furrowing.

"You know what? There's someone I need to go have a chat with myself. Sherlock probably wouldn't be too happy about me doing it, so do you have anything you can send him out on? Anything he won't figure out in five seconds that's not terribly dangerous? I'd appreciate it if you can just keep him busy for a bit, and you can tell him I won't do anything until we get another chance to talk later. Unless he er...unless he wants me gone. After what just happened, I wouldn't hold it against him. I'm a lot to deal with right now, and I don't want him to feel like he has to."

Greg sighed wearily. "I'll see what I can do," he began hesitantly, "But _Christ_... He's really in no condition to be going on active crime scenes. Not in this state. If something happens, it's my arse on the line. So your little chat better be bloody worth it."

He watched in relief as the officer finally made his escape, scuttling away as Sherlock sat on the nearest chair outside Greg's office. He watched as Sherlock exhaled sharply and rubbed at his forehead, his shoulders slumped a bit in exhaustion. Greg's eyes tightened.

"And you can't pull this bollocks again, John," he continued fiercely. "If you want to take a break, call the whole damned thing off, then fine. That's your decision, and even though I think it would be bloody stupid of either of you to give this up, you're free to do as you like. But you can't decide something like that—out of the blue, mind you—and then change your mind five minutes later. You of all people know how that sociopath nonsense of his is bullshit. He's more emotional than any of us, I reckon, and it _terrifies_  him. And you bring it out of him, and _that_  terrifies him. So the next time you make a fucking decision, you better think long and hard about it first, and then break it to him in a better way. I'll not be the one scooping him out of an alley because you let your fear push you into a rash decision." His voice had risen quite a bit by now, and he made a conscious effort to calm himself down.

"You're allowed to be scared," he added, his voice gruff but his tone gentle. "He's scared too." He looked out the window at where Sherlock was still rubbing at his temple, looking utterly defeated. " "Fuck it, _I'm_  scared for the both of you. But the minute you let that become more important than anything else, it's time to take a step back and take a good long look at the situation. Do you understand? This is me knocking some sense into you, by the way," he informed him wryly.

"Yeah," John quietly replied after a long bout of silence. "I understand." Shame devoured him whole as Greg's words came from the other end of the line, but he had to accept it in full; _he_  had done this, _he_  had left both himself and Sherlock wounded and struggling. But for however difficult it was being called out on for his actions, the DI had also done what John had desperately hoped; given him some much-needed perspective. He was so appreciative to have him as a friend, an ally, but immensely more grateful for just how much Greg looked out for and cared for Sherlock. For a deemed "sociopath", Sherlock really was doing a piss-poor job. There was a good handful of people who saw past all that bullshit and truly loved him. That thought made John smile a small bit, but it fell as he considered it all in deeper context.

Jesus, what Sherlock must be going through right now. John was rubbish enough at dealing with his own emotions, but Sherlock...Sherlock was always so desperate to keep it all reigned in. It's as Greg said, he was terrified of the magnitude of the sorts of things he felt. God, how John just wanted to hold him. Apologise profusely, take him in his arms and hold him for the entire rest of the day. But for now, he had something to do.

"I'll try to make it quick," he told Greg. "Thank you." He disconnected, sighed, gave it a second, then dialed Mary. He could do this himself, do bloody _something_. Go and confront her about everything in that damn file, and what may not have been in it. Have her explain. Judge for himself that all of _that_...all of it was over and done with. And when he went back to talk to Sherlock later, ideally it'd be with a clearer head, some small sense of peace, and an unwavering resolution to move forward. If he could get past this part, he felt, find some sense of jurisdiction in the whirlwind that was his life right now, he could make steps towards everything else.

Greg clicked off the phone and sighed. He set it down and banged his head down onto the table just as Sherlock walked in. "Problem?" Sherlock asked haughtily. Greg sat up to snap at his bloody tone... then paused. He took in the hint of wariness in his voice, the hesitation in his expression. He looked so... vulnerable.

_Sociopath, my arse._

"No," he replied in a bright voice, sliding the phone back to him. "Just, you know... rebooting." He gave him a smile. "Don't worry about him right now, yeah?" he suggested gently, "I don't really have any cases right now, but I've got loads of cold cases you could take a look at, if you don't mind."

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

"There's a perfectly good murder case that came just an hour ago," he argued quietly, hands balled into fists behind his back. "An eight, at least. I'm perfectly capable of—"

"I know you are," Greg cut in quickly, trying to reassure him. "I know. And maybe tomorrow I can call you in for it. But today..." He glanced meaningfully at the officer Sherlock had shouted at earlier. The poor man was easing around the corners, keeping an eye out for Sherlock so as not to run into him again. Sherlock pinkened as Greg looked back at him with a raised eyebrow. "I can't have you on crime scenes when you're this wired," he told him bluntly. Subtlety was never very effective in his experience with Sherlock Holmes. "Take a day, solve some cold cases, find out what's going on with... things, and come back tomorrow. Hell, come back in a few days if you like. A bloody holiday might do you some good."

Sherlock stayed silent. Much as he was loathe to admit it, Lestrade was right. He couldn't think, couldn't concentrate. He felt hot and prickling in his own skin, itching to do _something_. To feel useful. Sherlock didn't feel like admitting it at the moment, but he appreciated Lestrade's effort. They both knew he allowed Sherlock onto the crime scenes when it wasn't always in his best professional interest to do so. Especially not after the entire Moriarty debacle. Keeping that in mind and desperate for a distraction, he pulled on his gloves. "Fine. I will be in the basement if you need me," he acquiesced quietly.

Greg sighed in relief. "Thank you," he replied with a small smile. "Let me know if you need to take any home, I'll get you the clearance." As Sherlock nodded curtly and headed for the door, Greg called him back.

"It's going to be okay," he told him firmly. "Just give him a bit of time to realise what an idiot he's being. Don't give up on it, yeah? Don't do anything stupid. You two can talk later."

Sherlock stared for a long moment, unsure of whether to believe him or not. John had seemed so unwavering, so sure of what he had needed.

_To be away from you, you mean._

 Sherlock swallowed and nodded slowly, then made his way towards the basement. Greg sighed and banged his head down on the desk once more.

* * *

 

"Coffee?"

John declined with a small shake of his head, waiting for her to settle opposite of him at their once shared kitchen table.  

"So," Mary breathily started as she sat, her eyes diverted and fixed on the warm mug in her hands. "How're things over there? With...him?"

"Mm, we're not doing this," John said, quiet but firm, his jaw tightening slightly. "You. I'm here to talk about you." 

Mary’s eyebrows furrowed for a brief second before she finally brought her gaze to John. She tilted her head, her eyes slightly narrowed as she studied his face. John couldn't hold the gaze for long, it was too reminiscent of Sherlock reading him.

"He said something..." she said lowly. "Sherlock. Didn't he?"

"No," John replied immediately in Sherlock's defense. “No, he wouldn't tell me...not at first anyway.”  

Mary exhaled sharply through her nose and slowly shook her head, and it caused John's irritation to grow. "Sherlock seems to think he owes you something,” he said harshly. After everything you've done, imagine that."

"Well, doesn't he?" she huffed in exasperation, shaking her head incredulously. "Have you completely forgotten what it was like? _I_  was here John, through the depression, and the nightmares, and the panic attacks.  He wasn’t. He comes in and tries to pluck you up again like none of it happened, like he didn't bloody _destroy_  you...and goes and takes the both of us away from the one solid thing we have in our life right now-"

John couldn't help but snort. "Solid. That's...that's good. I don't even know your name."

"Don't do this. Don't judge me, alright? Everything I've ever done has been in hopes of starting over. And everything I've done recently has been for you. So that we can have a life. I’m trying so hard to get away from the things I've done, I'm _trying_ , and I truly do love you. For a while there, we were happy, I thought I actually had a chance; I was so, so close. John, please, just stop this. Please?" she begged quietly, desperately. "Come home, we'll go...we'll just go, we'll get out of here. We'll do whatever we need to do to-"

A long stretch of silence overcame the small kitchen as her words faded out; several seconds in which John could only stare at her with his brows deeply furrowed, mouth slightly open. She was quickly becoming visibly shaken, emotive, noticeably upset; such a stark contrast to her relative calm after their last two meetings.  

"No..." John said, barely recovered, his voice significantly softer. Concern and unease settled deep in the pit of his stomach. "My home is with Sherlock. My home is always going to be with Sherlock."  

Mary's phone loudly buzzed once, the vibration making both of them pause. They both looked to the lit mobile near her hands, John paying little mind to it and redirecting his gaze, mind still swimming.  

"I'm so sorry, John."

His focus snapped right back to her then, her pale face and spoken inflection making the light hairs at the back of his neck stand on edge.

“You're going to hate me when this is all finished," she gasped shakily, eyes rapidly watering. "But you've got to stay alive John. I'm trying to keep you alive."

"Mary..."

"John," she pleaded determinedly. "John, Keep your eyes fixed on me, okay?"  

Those few words made his stomach and expression drop completely, and just like that, he was right back at Bart's.  

_Roof. Fall. Blood._

He froze, his heart pounding in his chest, _knowing_  he needed to turn around, everything in him screaming at him to turn around, fight, but his body had gone numb, wide eyes trapped in Mary's desperate stare. The result was him waiting out the inevitable with sharp, short breaths, and the last conscious acknowledgement was Mary crying across from him as he was struck from behind.

* * *

_John's a target, a constant target, and I'm trying to end that today. Don't make a fuss: don't talk to your brother, don't involve the police. Rush to your flat if not already there; I have less than an hour to explain, and I'm going to need every minute of it. I won't lose him, Sherlock. You must open to cooperation. I imagine that today I'm going to find out just the kind of man you truly are._ -MM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this chapter man. It hurt so bad. But so good. But so bad. And now you get a lovely cliffhanger. :D


End file.
